


Lineal Season

by arklights



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #respecting elia's memory because rhaegar sure doesn't, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Family Drama, Georgian Period, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Slow Burn, anti-rhaegar depending on p.o.v., in this house we respect both elia and lyanna, no gods or kings only wights and blue bloods, replacement father and all-around swell guy arthur dayne, slightly idealistic themes of 'togetherness'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-19 08:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arklights/pseuds/arklights
Summary: The people of Westeros have grown negligent in the fight against the undead, preferring instead to focus on their petty slights and damaged stature. However, time is rapidly running out for them to realize that traditions of division need to end; the future is dependent on unity.Regency AU: wherein soiree season begins for the aristocratic elites of Westeros, the Targaryen siblings have each other's backs, scandalous engagements are proposed, and the only thing more frightening than a wight's teeth is the gossip.





	1. Aegon I

**Author's Note:**

> \- Characters will be added to tags as they appear in the fic.
> 
> \- This is a Regency/PPZ AU so I took a lot of liberties with the geography of Westeros. I also tweaked some pre-ASOIAF history, but it's not overwhelmingly different.  
> 

## Summer

Dorne in the summertime is a sight to see.

Tall oaks that line roads and paths are aplenty with vibrant colored leaves, the grassy hills and occasional sandy dunes exist as if they belong in the backdrop of a timeless painting. Flowers bloom towards the sun and harvest is always plentiful despite the heat. Families would be milling about markets in villages, buying and selling wares, swapping gossip as easily as pennies. Sweet smells from bakeries would welcome early risers and workers, sounds of youthful laughter would indicate when school was in session. The province is brought to life with warmth and color.

The mood in the village today, despite the pleasantly warm summer, is quiet. Some early risers wave and nod at the three riders that come through, but are otherwise keeping to themselves and their business. The sun hasn’t properly risen yet, but Aegon can tell it’s not sleep or lethargy disquieting the town—it’s restlessness from the unknown.

A scout group patrolling the eastside of the Vaithan woods had recently claimed to be attacked by wights. Those that managed to escape were taken with illness and had to be escorted to nearby physicians for treatment. They had shown early signs of having blistering boils and feverish fits; these symptoms of wight sickness have equal chances of either passing safely or causing death. Their lives are dependent upon Fate’s coin now, and the village was holding its breath.

The luckier scouts were given their rites.

The unlucky ones haven’t been seen or heard of for three days.

It’s never easy to deal with missing friends or family. There’s an unspoken understanding between the Westerosi; people would prefer their loved ones be declared dead as opposed to missing. You can burn a dead body but you can’t burn a missing one. Dorne may be the warmest province in Westeros, but only the foolish would think that they'd be completely safe here. The smart ones know that the cold bites just as hard down south as they do in the north—wights don’t discriminate between climates or seasons despite their icy forms. It’s an unforgiving truth that many, whether rich or poor, have learned firsthand.

Aegon knows that the people can come back from this. They always do. The Dornish are stubborn, determined, and strong. People manage to pull through year after year, but he has to wonder how long a society can function like this—there seems to be no end to the misery caused from sharing a world with the dead.

It’s the second day that he, Trystane, and Cletus are out searching for the missing scouts. They aren’t professional wight hunters by any stretch, but Dorne is too vast a land to be complacent—or picky—about skilled volunteer searchers. Quentyn would have rode with them today, but he had been charged with the mundane task of questioning survivors. Aegon only hopes they find some good news; the longer it takes to find someone, the less likely it would be that they’re still human. To continue the search after today would be a fool’s move.

***

He curses this damned sun. Though previously welcome for its pleasant warmth, he’s pretty sure it’s now cooking him under his morning coat. Cletus had shed his own coat two hours ago, apparently deciding it was more preferable to just burn his skin if there’s even a chance he can feel the breeze. Achilius was whinnying restlessly and dragging his hoofs as Aegon pushes onwards; it seems the heat and mundanity of the trip had gotten to his stallion—the horse is usually so patient.

He shares a disheartening look with his oldest friend. The sun will be setting in a few hours and it’s a long ride back to the villages—they can’t stay out for too much longer. They’ve been trained far too well to do something as idiotic as wandering the countryside past sundown. Again, that is. Being lectured even once by Aunt Mellario is enough to scar him for a lifetime.

“Think we’ll actually find anybody?” Cletus asks the group, tightening the reins on his horse as he surveys the surrounding trees. “It’s not quiet. I can hear the birds, so the animals are back. Everything looks normal here. Where are the tracks and trails?”

Trystane’s brows furrow as he examines the dirt. “Even if an animal disturbed something, we’d be able to see it. But there’s nothing—no ice, no frost, no puddles of water… Maybe we should head back now?”

“The scouts came through here,” Cletus points out, squinting at a particularly deformed branch on an oak. “We’ll find something. I’m sure of it.”

“The sun is still out, Trystane, we have at least an hour,” Aegon says, looking back at his cousin. “You seem unusually eager to head home.”

Cletus huffs a small laugh from Aegon’s side. “Eager to go back to his lady more like it.”

“What? No, that’s not it!” Trystane protests at them.

“Really,” Aegon deadpans, steadying his horse. He gives Cletus a pointedly amused look as Trystane sputters at them.

Miss Jayne Ladybright was visiting the estate for the summer and today is to be the last day of her stay. Her close friendship with Arianne means Jayne is allowed to visit often. It’s of no secret to the rest of the family that Trystane is very taken with her. They’d been jokingly gossiping that an engagement was in the works before being overheard by Mellario. She had stopped dinner with a clink of cutlery on her wine glass, loudly announcing how happy she was that one of them was planning on getting married before she was grey, pointedly emphasizing how “her boys follow tradition and don’t  _try to elope_.”

Rhaenys had choked on her potatoes at Arianne’s affronted squawk. Mother and daughter had proceeded to sass each other over their salads, conveniently forgetting that an increasingly embarrassed Jayne was sitting between them. She had turned so red that he stupidly thought her hair would catch fire.

“What the hell is happening, who’s trying to get married now?” Oberyn whispered to Lady Ellaria as the table erupted into loud exclamations, people talking and shouting over each other.

It was definitely a scene. He was so sure Trystane was going to murder them that night—Quentyn still falls into random fits of laughter when he sees the two in the same room.

Clearly his cousin was thinking about that night too, if his annoyed glare was anything to go by.

“I just want to see her off!” Trystane insists.

“Well,” Cletus says, turning to Aegon with a straight face. “How very gentlemanly of him.”

Trystane pushes ahead, choosing instead to ignore their amused looks. “You know what? Fine, be like that. I’ll take this search seriously then,” he says with a huff. “Though it doesn’t look like there’s anything here.”

Cletus trots his mare further, glancing around at the otherwise untouched greenery with a small frown, good humor leaving him again. “They came through here. We picked up injured scouts from along this path—if there’s anything to be found, it should be in this general region.”

 _Well,_   _we’re not going to find much from up here_ , Aegon thinks as he hops off his horse, twigs crunching under his boots. Wights always leave traces of frost and glinting sleet, no matter the weather or season. Their mere presence saps the warmth from the air and freezes everything in the surroundings, leaving a supernatural ice that doesn’t melt for days. Even in peak summer unlucky farmers can sometimes find frosted foot tracks in their fields, or wake to see trees dusted with half-frozen fruit.

Aegon starts picking at a fallen log with his sword, equally dismayed and relieved at the sight of thick, unfrozen sap under the bark.

The injured scouts had shown obvious wight-inflicted wounds—no bites, thankfully—and some were still breathing frosted air when they returned to the villages. To have no signs of wight presence in the area is incredibly unusual. And unnerving. He looks to the sun, mentally gauging how many hours of light they’d have left before it was absolutely necessary to return home, and decided that sooner is better than later. Something doesn’t feel right in his gut.

“We should split up,” Aegon decides, tying a fussy Achilius to the nearest tree. “Five minutes, head straight forwards, if you see nothing, return here. Those scouts might be gone but I want to be sure. Maybe we’ll find something on foot, maybe we won’t. At least we checked.”

Cletus nods his assent, looking towards the distance. “If you see anything, call loudly… or,” he pauses and smirks at Trystane, “squeal like an eleven year-old. Works for you all the time, doesn’t it Trys?”

“I hate you both,” Trystane mutters under his breath as he dismounts his horse. “Should have just gone with Quentyn. Might have made it home by now.”

Aegon rolls his eyes at them. “Five minutes, then we head right back to the villages.”

He turns at their nods and starts picking his way under branches, cutting down the thin ones with his sword like a glorified Valyrian steel scythe. Absolutely nothing looks out of the ordinary. The leaves are still glossy and green, the soft dirt is still squelching lightly underfoot. He even checks the petals of some wildflowers littering the floor—soft and fragrant, not brittle at all.

A little further onwards, Aegon spots something. A piece of orange cloth caught on a branch. A scout must have come rushing through here. There’s also some small droplets of what he’ll assume is blood, and a lot of splintered bark on the ground. However, without any frozen tracks these signs could just as well be from strong winds and clumsy horse-riding. The further along he scans, the less he thinks he’ll find anything more. He should head back…but Uncle Arthur had told him to always be thorough, and Aegon would be an idiot to ignore the famed knight’s advice.

Stepping under the shade of a particularly large oak, he can feel the temperature drop sharply. The air feels heavier, as if the cold is constricting around his lungs. Aegon quickly checks his breath, thanking the Gods that he can’t see any frost or fog. Clutching the sword tightly in his hands, he quietly moves and checks around the trees and bushes. He sees and hears nothing out of the ordinary, even the birds are still chirping in the distance—but the chill in the air doesn’t feel natural. Cautiously stepping forwards, Aegon hunts around, checking under the logs and inside the hollows of trees. Nothing. He even chances a glace upwards, just in case wights have taken to tree-climbing for whatever unforeseen reason. Still nothing.

“Great, I’m losing my mind,” he mutters to himself, pushing some loose silver hair from his eyes. The five minutes is surely up, and besides this weird cold drought, there’s nothing to see here. Turning around slowly, he begins making his way back. He only makes it a few yards before stopping short—the heat has sharply returned to his bones, warming him so quickly that he can feel pinpricks in his fingers. It’s even easier to breathe. The distinction is enough to jolt him into action.

“Cletus? Trystane?” he calls, rushing back towards the meeting area. “Come over here for a minute!”

At the sound of his voice they rush over, swords and pistols in hand, eyes alert. At least he wasn’t imagining the drop in temperature; Cletus whipped around and swung his sword so fast that Aegon thought he actually saw a wight.  “What in the world?”his friend exclaims.

“Help me look around,” Aegon tells them. “I can’t find where this cold is coming from.”

The search, even with three pairs of eyes, was fruitless. While they managed to pick up more trails of previous scouts, there was no source of the chill. Branches sway in the wind as the birdsongs serenade them from above; it was as if the forest herself was mocking them. He wants to keep looking around but they can’t stay any longer. The sun was beginning its descent and these woods are incredibly tricky to navigate in low light.

“Remember this location, we can ask the knights to investigate,” Aegon tells them as they head back their horses. “If nothing else, maybe the other provinces will know something.”

“We should ask Winterfell,” Cletus suggests, untying his mare. “Those Northerners see absolutely everything up there. There’s nothing these wights have done that they haven’t faced before. Unfortunate bastards.”

He's right, of course, but Aegon's not so sure that the Northerners would be willing to help them; the people of Westeros haven't exactly been very cordial with each other in these last few years.

***

It’s comforting to see the sandstone estate over the hills, standing regally as it had for generations. The trip back was long and exhausting; not finding any survivors had really sapped their morale, and the weather was hotter than Aegon had ever remembered it being. His silver hair is slick on his face and he’s pretty sure at least one of them was sunburned.

“Lords Martell,” the elderly door guardsman greets, surreptitiously checking them over for wounds. “I hope the search was successful?”

Trystane shakes his head glumly and the man nods understandingly at them. “Lady Rhaenys received a few letters this morning and wishes to speak with you, my Lord Aegon. She was last seen in her bedroom.”

“I’ll find Father,” Trystane says, shaking out his sweaty hair with a grimace. “Tell him what happened. You go on ahead.”

“Thank you,” Aegon tells the guardsman, wiping the sticky hair from his face as he takes to the stairs. Whatever it is, he hopes it’s not too urgent. He wants a bath and a nap before dinner.

He doesn’t find Rhaenys in her room. Quick glances inside his cousin’s bedrooms tell him that they’re all out and about today. He’ll have to hunt around the estate for her then.

The halls are quiet, maids and servants having come and gone. Vibrant flowers light up the hallway in their glossy vases and dusky light filters warmly through freshly laundered curtains. He can even hear the soothing thrum of running water from the gardens. It’s quiet and peaceful, almost as if the estate exists within a completely different realm from the rest of the world.

When Aegon was younger, he thought nothing could harm him here. The historical Nymeros family—his ancestors—were famed wight hunters. He likes to think that their spirits live on inside the ancestral home, that they will protect all of her inhabitants from the evils outside. It’s naïve, he knows better of course, but one can still dream.

Aegon had only ever felt unsafe in this home once. When he was ten, he woke up one night very suddenly and shivering profusely. The windows were wide open, which isn't unusual considering the Dornish heat. He’d tried closing them but was distracted by the fields—they were covered in a thin sheen of ice and snow. Aegon had never seen snow before, he’d run screaming though these same halls towards Rhaenys’ room, waking almost every occupant in the manor. He’d been so scared of wight attacks that he was convinced it was an invasion. It’d taken hours for Doran to calm him down. It wasn’t even winter back then.

That same night, after Rhaenys had fallen asleep holding him in her arms, Aegon had been struck with a sudden and inextricable surge of curiosity. He’d snuck out to the estate yards, staying close to the candlelight and double doors as to be safe. He remembers wiping away the cold to see frozen grass underneath, staring so long and hard that he didn’t realize the snow had melted into his clothes.

The grass under the snow was blackened and crisp.  _Burned by the ice_.

“I just wanted to see that everything was okay under the snow!” he’d tried explaining to Rhaenys in the morning, after she had found his damp shoes, slick and shiny with sleet. He had tried calming her, but she was _livid_. Arthur had come checking when Rhaenys had started screaming at him. She was furious, dragging him by the arm to the family physician. She refused to stop lecturing him as he was being looked over, even when Arthur—arguably Rhaenys’ favorite uncle, despite having no familial relation—had tried to calm her. She had said some very choice words no thirteen year-old lady should have said that day.

It wasn’t surprising; his sister had a flame-quick temper, flaring fast and burning hot. It only ever comes to the surface when she's worried or scared. Those moods were never a pretty sight, but Rhaenys never burned long enough to hurt; she would always cool fast, as if somebody had snuffed the wick out. She’d forgiven him as soon as he was deemed healthy and fine, pulling him into her arms tightly. "Better not scare me like that again," she had whispered into his curls, holding him closely.

He had forgotten that Arthur was in the room until he overheard the man talking that night. He was in the den, with Uncles Oberyn and Doran. Arthur was telling them that “they take after him too, you know, both of them. The lack of his name doesn’t change anything.”

It wasn’t until he was older that he realized they were talking about Father. In what aspects, he’s not sure. After all, they barely even knew the man.

***

Rhaenys isn’t in the den, meeting room, waiting room, tea room, parlor room, or the entertaining room. Instead he finds her in the library. The only reason people use this room as often as they do is because these large bay windows boast the greatest view of the estate. Only Sarella religiously comes here for the books. She spends more time in the library than with her tutors, much to his uncle’s amusement. Aegon knows for a fact that nobody besides his cousin has even read a quarter of the library, though not for lack of trying. There always seems to be one problem or another that needs attending to.

His sister was reading a letter by the window, absently fiddling with a quill and with her feet propped on the sill. There's a teapot on the table beside her, steam gently billowing from its spout.

“What are you reading there, Rhae?” he asks, coming to lean on her parlor chair.

Rhaenys jerks at the sound of his voice. “A letter from Jon,” she says, waving the parchment in her hand with a small smile. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. There’s to be a ball held in his name when fall comes. Apparently he has been convinced to take a wife. Lords and ladies from all over Westeros will be there, vying for his attention.”

“Oh, he’s going to be thrilled.”

Rhaenys barks a laugh, “the letter is a plea for support, dear Aegon. He has called for arms, we must support him in these trying times. Those of high society are bloodhounds, if they sense weakness they’ll go for the neck. We can’t leave poor Jon out in the cold like that.”

He hums thoughtfully at her amused tone. “And what does that make us then?”

“Concerned older siblings, ready to protect the honor of our brother,” she replies smoothly, giving him a sly smile.

“Right, of course… And that one?” Aegon asks, pointing towards the other letter in her lap. Both of them were sealed with the same wax arms: the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens of the Crownlands. He wonders what Jon must have forgotten that he needed to send two letters.

“That one’s from Rhaegar,” Rhaenys said dismissively, tossing it aside. “A formal invitation to the ball. Sent to the family.” She looked highly unimpressed with it.

He watches her for a bit as she frowns absentmindedly down at the letter.

Aside from some incredibly awkward visits, Rhaenys rarely talks to or about Father. Aegon would go so far as to say she despises the man. The rest of the Targaryens, however, she’s seems to be fine with. Rhaenys adores Jon and holds a fair amount of respect for the Lady Lyanna. Even their distant aunt and uncle are regarded more highly than Father. Aegon understands why she holds the man in contempt, but he has never truly been able to relate, on an emotional level, to Rhaenys’ derision.

Aegon was too young to remember the events that occurred at the Dragonstone estate; he doesn’t remember the circumstances of their mother’s death, or the court battles and vicious altercations that followed. Rhaenys was only three at the time, but she had remembered enough. Her memories may often be undependable, but she never forgot Mother’s brutal murder. Torn apart by wights, after the people of the estate had either fled or been killed.

“There weren’t many trained people at Dragonstone that night,” she would tell him. “They’d gone to fight for Rhaegar. We were all alone.”

Aegon only knows parts of what happened, but he knows enough to piece together the story. He was only a few weeks old when Father had suddenly run off—leaving his bedridden wife and two children in the hands of estate personnel. It was coincidentally around the same time that a highborn northern lady went missing. Many months had passed before Father returned, publically claiming his love and intentions for a Lady Lyanna Stark. It had created a public furor; made worse by the absence of Lady Stark’s presence.

Lords and ladies were up in arms. The Dornish and Northerners were beyond furious. Father and Lady Stark had evidently planned to marry in secret, or so Aegon was told. It was incredibly foolish; the Northerners belonged to a large and proud province that shouldn’t have been crossed—the Dornish were equally so. When Lady Stark had remained missing, many families had rallied and called for accountability from Father; highborn from all over Westeros were rallying their arms. 

There were court battles and literal, physical battles. Trained men and women of the Crownlands had followed their Duke into these feuds, Arthur included, leaving Dragonstone under minimal guard. Those that were left—the Dornishmen, mainly—were incredibly outnumbered when wights had descended. It wasn’t very soon after that the estate fell. Those disputes over Lady Stark may have lasted indefinitely, if it weren’t for the loss of Duchess Elia of the Crownlands.

It had apparently taken the destruction of Aegon's family and ancestral home for everything to end.

“He humiliated Mother and left us there, to be taken by the wights,” Rhaenys had said, voice shaking with fury. “If Uncle Arthur hadn’t found us, we’d be dead as well.”

She had been blaming Father for seventeen years.

Perhaps her recollection had been warped by Oberyn or other proud Dornish nobles—they are particularly vocal about their dislike of Father—and what she remembered wasn’t all accurate.  _Maybe_ , he had thought for a long time,  _Rhaenys is wrong about Father,_   _she’s wrong to hate him as passionately as she does_.

But then he’d hear her nightmares.

They’re not quiet nightmares, the worse ones never are. She’d scream in her sleep. For Mother, for him, for Arthur, and on certain occasions, even Father. She’d wake pale and shaking, eyes faraway but seeing nothing. It would occasionally hit him, this cold feeling of guilt. He’s happy he was so young when the sacking happened—happy that he doesn’t have to share this burden and pain with Rhaenys. He’s relieved that he doesn’t remember his Mother’s face or voice so that it doesn’t come to haunt his dreams. One time, while holding her after a particularly horrible nightmare, the unbridled and selfish thought of  _I’m glad this isn’t me_  had crossed his mind.

He’d felt awful for days.

Those nightmares haven’t occurred in years, but the haunted look would reappear sometimes. In those instances, when Rhaenys’ fear and grief come through, he actually thinks he hates Father. It passes, of course, but his sister’s happiness has always been a topmost concern for him. He even feels vindicated that they don’t carry Father’s name, but that feeling passes as well.

After Dragonstone had fallen, nobody had tried to stop Sir Arthur of Starfall from riding south with another man’s traumatized children. When those children became the topic of a bitter custody contention between the Dukes of Sunspear and the Duke of the Crownlands, nobody had supported their father’s side. His right to the children had been eroded by the very public humiliation he dealt to his lawful-wedded wife and her family; from his infidelity to his second marriage. No judges or housed lords were sympathetic enough to return them to Father’s care, nor did they contest the legal name amendments.

Aegon can’t even remember a time when he wasn’t a Martell.

Despite having occurred almost two decades ago, Aegon knows that the pain of losing Mother would never truly heal over. He sees traces of her presence in Uncle Doran’s sad and melancholic eyes. He sees the pained and rueful looks Oberyn sometimes sends his youngest daughter, Elia. Aegon has to wonder how it must feel, knowing that you’re growing up under the legacy of a woman nobody can touch. He sees it in the guilty set of Arthur’s shoulders and in his eyes when he looks at them. Whoever Mother was to Arthur, she must have been very dear to him. Lastly, he recognizes it when people look at Rhaenys, he sees them do double-takes and he sees them gaze and stare. He sees the way they carefully pick their words, only to stutter statements and platitudes.

“You look so much like your mother,” they would tell her.

“Thank you,” Rhaenys would reply, giving them a strained smile.

Rhaenys had always known this truth. She’s been told of their resemblance more than a hundred times over. He wonders if any of the times he caught her staring into a mirror was actually about vanity—perhaps cousin Elia isn’t the only person living under Mother’s shadow.

Rationally, Aegon knows he should feel more grief and sadness. The truth is, he never really knew his mother. Who was Elia Martell-Targaryen, the deceased Duchess of the Crownlands, beloved Lady of Dorne? Everything that he knows about her, he has been told by somebody else. Her soft and kind soul, her sharp wit, her loyal and caring nature—he was told she possessed these qualities. And perhaps she did. There's only thing that Aegon is sure of. If Mother really does look like Rhaenys, she must have been very beautiful indeed.

Whenever he feels like cursing Father out under the sun, he remembers that his soft and kind mother, with her generous and forgiving nature, wouldn't have wanted that for him. In the end, despite everything that's passed, Aegon still keeps correspondences with Father. The haltingly awkward letters and sparse visits are all he has of the man. He wonders if Mother would be happy about this status quo.

Rhaenys shakes her head as if to clear it. He hadn’t realized that they’d both fallen into a comfortable silence, staring out the bay window with their thoughts. Rhaenys sends one last displeased glance at Father’s letter before turning to him. “What about the scouts today?” she asks, clearly changing the subject. “Did you find anybody?”

“No, not a soul.”

He takes in the ink stains on her fingers and the pile of parchments on the side table. They're both content to drop the topic of Father for now. “What have you been up to today?”

“Writing condolence letters,” she said, rubbing at her eyes. “For the families of the dead scouts. Quentyn returned earlier, said that the other men and women are resting and stable,” she gives him a small and tired smile. “So that’s good news. Less we have to worry about when we leave.”

“We’re well prepared here in Dorne. Nothing will happen when we’re away, Rhae.”

She gives him a fond look. “You’re out there more than I am, I feel like I should be comforting you.”

“Well, that’s because you stress too much and don’t know how to enjoy yourself,” Aegon teases, playfully picking at her braids. She laughs and shoves him away, turning to look at him with narrowed and thoughtful eyes.

“I do enjoy myself. I like taking care of my family—which, speaking of—includes you. Would it be negligent of me, only helping Jon, when I have yet another unmarried brother?” she asks teasingly. Oh, his sister is _definitely_ smirking now.

“Well, I don’t believe I need the help…” Aegon says exaggeratedly, making a show of puffing out his chest and posing regally. “All of the fair ladies in this province are lining up to marry me. They don’t call me Aegon the Adonis for nothing, you know.”

She looks so unimpressed that Aegon almost feels offended. “Nobody with two good eyes would call you that.”

“They do!”

“If you truly believe that, brother, I’ll indulge you.”

Rhaenys looks at him consideringly. “Though... If you ever want to settle down, the ball is where you should start looking,” she says lightly. “Remember, all the lords, ladies, and knights are invited.”

“I thought you said they were bloodhounds?”

“I want you to be happy,” she said honestly. “And bloodhounds aren’t all bad. You just have to be able to pick the rotten ones from the pack. I'll help, obviously.”

“I’m happy because we’re here, together. And that we can see Jon soon,” Aegon replies, squeezing her shoulders. “But if you would be so kind, how about we just focus on Jon?”

She winks at him, “I make no promises.”

He knows it’s a lost battle; when Rhaenys gets an idea in her head, it’s there to stay. He just hopes she’s not going to be to have too much fun at his expense. “What about you?” Aegon asks instead, contemplating his sister.

“What about me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Aegon crosses his arms, leaning on her head obnoxiously. “Don’t be obtuse. Why is it just Jon and I who have to settle down? Shouldn’t the oldest get married first? Age before beauty?”

Rhaenys rolls her eyes at him. “Realistically, no man would approach me—I’m untouchable,” she says in a confident tone. “They all know that they have to impress Doran, Oberyn, and Arthur, which is deterrent enough. Also, there’s a good chance that you lot will scare them off before they even get to the ‘Uncle’ stage.”

“And what does that mean?” Aegon asks, giving her a half-hearted glare.

“They’d have to have the patience of one thousand nuns to put up with all of our riff-raff, and Gods forbid—have the stomach to handle Oberyn and Ellaria anytime they want to get frisky in good company,” she explains, grinning up at him. “Like I said, I'm untouchable. Haven’t even met me yet and they’ve already lost. Poor fellow.”

“It’s not like they’ll be moving home with you, shouldn’t I be more worried about my future wife? She’s the one who’s going to be living in this zoo with me,” Aegon points out, moving around to lean against the window frame. “You wouldn’t even have to live here anymore.”

“Yeah, I don’t envy her, that's for sure,” Rhaenys says, not looking sympathetic at all to his future wife's plight. “Also, I’m not planning on getting married anytime soon. Arianne would marry before I do.”

They both snort at that.

“You’ll be eating your words, sister,” he says, shaking his head at her. “You’re going to find some lord with no siblings and a quiet, peaceful home. You’ll be packing your bags so fast, Rhaenys.”

“I should hope they don’t live too far from Dorne then, I would miss all of your faces too much,” she says, grinning. Rhaenys grins at him happily for a moment before turning away.

“We have to leave within the week if we want to get to Jon’s estate before the other families,” Rhaenys hums, picking up her quill again. “It's a little short notice. You might want to settle your affairs and start packing soon—nice clothes, okay? I want to show off my brothers.”

He mockingly salutes her and makes his leave, sister laughing the whole time. He knows when he's no longer needed, at least.

***

There’s really only one thing he needs to settle before packing—the wight situation in the woods.

Hopefully Cletus and Trystane have informed others about their unusual find. It’s nothing much on the surface, but Aegon would feel better if somebody was looking into it while they’re away. Wights and unusual activity always make for particularly thorny situations.

He finds Doran in the water gardens, taking in the summer air. Tyene’s also there, sitting by the pond and kicking her feet in the cool water.

“Hey, how are you today?” he asks, nudging her playfully with his foot.

Tyene pulls a face at him.

“That great, huh?”

“Apparently,” she said with great emphasis, “it’s not proper for a lady like me to pull pranks on ‘learned and respected persons’. My tutor got me grounded.”

“What did you even do?” he asks.

Tyene scrunches her nose, “I only switched out the sugar with the salt before morning tea. With the way he was harping about, you’d think I poisoned him.”

“Well,” Aegon says, ruffling her blonde hair consolingly. “… Try not to get caught next time?”

She gives him a miffed look and turns away pointedly, clearly unimpressed with his lack of sympathy and him in general.  _Great_ , _now I’ve got to watch out for retaliation_ , he thinks fondly.

Doran gives him a warm smile when Aegon joins him on his bench. He has a worn copy of  _War and Peace_ in his lap, absent-mindedly playing with the edges as he looks towards the sunset.

“Trystane informed me of what happened.”

Aegon hums, welcoming the cool breeze in the water gardens. He links his hands behind his head, slumping down comfortably. “I know that it’s not unusual for people to go missing, I just hate not finding them,” he confesses.

“It’s not your fault, Aegon.” Doran leans forward, looking at him seriously. “Every person in Westeros has felt loss at the clutches of wights. Some more than others. You may never be able to find those men and women, but you won’t give up. I know you.”

He squeezes Aegon’s knee comfortingly. "I’ve also sent word out about your other findings, may it be nothing.”

“It was very unusual, Uncle. There was nothing but a cold presence, and it just lingers there—no source or anything. It was nothing like I’ve ever experienced before.”

“That is odd.” Doran agrees, looking out thoughtfully at the ponds. “We’ll look into it with our best men and women.”

Aegon hums a bit, taking in the peaceful view of the setting sun, purple swashed against orange in the skyline. “Has Rhaenys told you that Father's holding a ball for Jon?” he asks, watching as Doran’s eyes tighten slightly.

“She has,” he says carefully, leaning back into the bench. “He had invited only the lords and ladies of the house, so Oberyn’s daughters will not be accompanying you.”

Aegon glances towards Tyene, at the sulky position of her shoulders and the dejected mood she’s presenting. He can't imagine another young lady who would be more excited to attend an official soiree than Tyene.

“Why not? They’re all highborn ladies. Just because Uncle Oberyn and Lady Ellaria aren't married...”

“The rest of Westeros isn’t as open-minded as we are here. Our customs do not fit into their views of tradition. We’re not equals in their eyes—but that also means they’re not equal in ours.” Doran says, annoyingly cryptic.

Sometimes Aegon wonders if Dorne’s careful separation from the rest of the continent is a good thing. They’re so far south that it almost feels like the province belongs to another world.  _When was the last time all of the large provinces played nice_ ,  _outside of these little soirees and balls_ , he wonders. There must be about seventeen years of thinly veiled distrust and animosity between the aristocrats of Westeros.

 _I can change this_ , he thinks to himself, surveying his home and family.  _I can bring the Dornish back into Westerosi society where we belong_. 


	2. Rhaenys I

Rhaenys loves travelling: Westeros and the world beyond Dorne was too tempting, too vast, and too mysterious to not explore. Usually, trips like these would drive the whole household mad with anticipation, but the only thing she’s been feeling within the last week is dread. Between packing and wrangling household affairs, everything had seemed so hectic and daunting that she couldn’t even take the time to enjoy leaving Sunspear.

They’ve been on the road for a week, and so far it’s been smooth travelling. No wights or feral beasts have met them on the way; Rhaenys doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed. The further from Dorne they travel, the heavier the knot in her stomach feels. She might miss Jon, but she’s in no hurry to see the rest of his family or the company they keep. Rhaenys could go the rest of her life without laying her eyes on Rhaegar and his associates again, that’s for certain.

Arianne doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort—or maybe she does, in that typically subtle way of hers—because she doesn't say anything. They had spent the majority of the journey distracting themselves with chatter and rumors; placing bets to see whom, out of their little party, would be worse off by the end of the season. Rhaenys chose Trystane and Arianne chose herself. The winner gets one unspecified, non-negotiable favor, no doubt at the cost of the other’s pride.  

“Quentyn’s bloody lucky,” Arianne complains. “He gets to sit on the sidelines, watching all of us suffer at the hands of Mother and Oberyn.”

Quentyn, being the most fortunate of them all, has been engaged to Lady Gwenyth Yronwood since last spring. He was looking especially smug the week before they left: Mellario had become increasingly determined to get the rest of them married advantageously, and her incentive was frightening. They had made a game of avoiding her, trying to outdo themselves with the stunts and excuses. Rhaenys almost broke her ankle trying to climb from her top-storey bedroom when Mellario came knocking.

“The woman’s like a harpy,” Arianne says gloomily. “Nagging me about this, nagging me about that. Mother doesn’t trust me enough to give me a voice in these things.”

“The last time they let you decide what you wanted to do, you ran away and tried to marry a Tyrell,” Rhaenys points out, smirking at the embarrassed look on her cousin’s face.

“Am I never going to live that down?” Arianne grumbles, glaring at her as she laughs.

Arianne had spent some time ignoring her after that.

Now that they’ve entered the Crownlands, however, Rhaenys can’t seem to muster enough energy to distract herself from their impending arrival at King’s Landing. Her good mood had vanished, leaving her anxious and twitchy. Arianne was idly watching the scenery go by, feet resting on the seat, shiny black slippers kicked off haphazardly. She’s tapping the hilt of her dagger against the window, evidently bored with the quiet monotony. The rhythmic  _twak twak twak_ of the glass wasn’t calming her nerves at all. Rhaenys twists a flintlock pistol in her hand, absentmindedly polishing it on the fine material of her dress. She much prefers her sword, a fondness she probably owes to her uncles, but had left it packed away with her other valuables. She taps her feet to the rhythm of Arianne’s dagger, staring out the window of the carriage miserably. The silk of her gloves must be frayed with how hard she’s wringing her hands.

Arianne glances at her warily. “Are you alright?”

Rhaenys shrugs awkwardly, shifting in her seat. “It’s been years, Ari. Since I last saw him.” She tosses her pistol to the side, listening to the solid  _thump_  of metal meeting wood. “I just hate being around Rhaegar, he always seems to bring out the worst in me.”

Arianne contemplates her silently, watching her with those sharp eyes she inherited from her father. There’s no hiding secrets from Uncle Doran, and there’s certainly no hiding secrets from Arianne. Her cousin is sharp, witty, cunning, and can read people like books. She possesses this kind of confidence that just attracts and disarms people; you wouldn’t know you’ve given her everything until she’s played her hand. Rhaenys hates that her cousin can do that to her. She hates that people can read her so well; as if every emotion, every minor freak-out, every distracted mood she falls into, is readily displayed for public consumption.

“You’ve never been nervous meeting that fool before, Rhaenys,” Arianne says. “You’ve never hesitated to tell him what you think of him. What’s the difference now?”

“The difference is that we actually have to stay here for about three weeks, living off his goddamn hospitality. The difference is we’re leaving the estate to just your father and the girls. I feel like we’re behind enemy lines and—and we didn’t leave enough people for the home defense… If you know what I mean.” Rhaenys gestures around the carriage, a little hopelessly. “I just have this gut feeling, you know? Something isn't right.”

Arianne sighs, leaning forwards to hold her hands. “You’re doing it again, Rhaenys. Just look at me and breathe.”

Arianne waits until she does, stilling Rhaenys' hands. “I worry as well, okay? But this is Dorne and Sunspear we’re talking about. We’re prepared for everything, and you know it. Our cousins are more dangerous than anything we’ve ever faced, that is a fact. The wights would take one look at Obara and turn tail. And if this is about Targaryen, remember that he isn’t going to do anything stupid, either. He has very little allies where he needs them; he won’t risk hurting us, you, or Aegon.”

Rhaenys nods, rolling her eyes as Arianne leans back, giving her a playful glare. “Also, you need to spend less time with Sir Arthur, your speech has gotten a tad… roguish. Mother won’t be pleased with that kind of improper talk. Especially in front of the  _oh so important_  northerners.”

Rhaenys scoffs, knocking their knees together.

“I wish Uncle Arthur were coming with us today,” she confesses, watching the trees pass by. “I hate meeting Rhaegar without him.”

Arianne hums knowingly. Sir Arthur of Starfall had been very invested in Rhaenys' and Aegon's lives growing up. Arthur’s close friendship with Rhaegar had been shattered after the man ran off with Lyanna Stark, and in Rhaegar’s absence, he had come in to fill the fatherly role the children were missing. Uncles Doran and Oberyn had valiantly tried, but they had children of their own and were ill-equipped to deal with childhood trauma. It was no matter, however, because Rhaenys and Aegon had adored Arthur—she more than her brother, perhaps. She had become incredibly attached to him after Dragonstone, taking to following him around whenever he visited the Nymeros estate. Arthur would carry her around on his back, regaling her with tall tales and making sure she and Aegon had everything they wanted. Oberyn had once joked that they needed to keep an eye on the beloved knight, less he whisks the children off to Starfall with him one day.

“The Daynes will be there in time for Jon’s ball—Edric and Dyanna are of marriageable age now, remember? And I know for a fact that Arthur will be looking after your prospects,” Arianne points out, a little jealously if her frown is anything to go by. She slumps in her seat dramatically. “Gods knows I’ll much prefer him fielding questions about my future engagements. I'm telling you Rhaenys, Oberyn and Mama are going to make me pay for my sins.”

“And I know you have many,” Rhaenys laughs, ducking away from Arianne’s dagger.

“Please, as if you’re one to talk! You  _saint_.”

***

Rhaenys feels her breath catch when the Targaryen estate comes into view. The mansion stands towering and grand, reaching towards the sky with its many floors and balconies, sunlight glinting off white stone. Tall gating cordons the Targaryen land, its posts are adorned with upwards-pointed spikes resembling territorial spearheads. There are intricate dragon-figure carvings in the black stone foundations and she finds herself drawn to them. Its design is so cold, so menacing.  _How many wights have been torn apart here_ , she wonders,  _is it in the hundreds? Thousands?_

Gate guardsman nod as they enter, carriages rolling along wide cobblestone paths. Even the yards are immaculate and precisely maintained, boasting colorful flowering bushes and elegant stone fountains. They pass hedges that are trimmed with winter roses and frosted with sweet alyssum. She opens the window hatch to let in the light breeze, trying to catch the scent from the gardens.  _This isn’t so bad_ , she thinks to herself. _I was worried about nothing_. She finds herself relaxing until Arianne bodily knocks into her. “Hey, what is that?” her cousin wonders, pressing her face against the glass. She’s squinting at something in the distance, gloved hand blocking out the sun. Rhaenys peers around her: there’s some dark blobs darting around the great entrance of the mansion. They look like tiny dogs, let loose around the immaculate yard.

She almost doesn’t believe her eyes when the carriages get close enough for her to see.

“Are those… wolves?” she turns to gawk at Arianne, grabbing a dagger from her thigh holster and instinctively jumping out of the moving carriage, much to the shock of both cousin and coachman. She has the flintlock cocked in the other hand, rolling smoothly to a stop in front of the open estate doors.

There’s nobody there.

"What the fu—Rhaenys?" Arianne calls, following Rhaenys out. "You have got to stop doing things like that."

The others have gotten out too, albeit in a calmer manner. Quentyn shoves his way to the front, pushing his sister behind him protectively. Lady Ellaria was holding her parasol up and seemed rather unfazed at the commotion, glancing around the estate with mild interest. Aegon just looks confused. The wolfish creatures don’t seem very dangerous up close. Or big, for that matter. Some wolves trot around them warily, while others bound around the carriages, sniffing curiously. A small pile of grey fur pads around her shins, baring its teeth at her dagger. Its yellow eyes dart around at her weapons, to her family, and then back to her.

“Amazing. The asshole really let the estate go,” Oberyn remarks drily, inspecting a small silvery-grey pup with interest. “Next, you’ll tell me he replaced the staff with lions.”

 _They’re just puppies_ , she thinks vacantly.  _I was about to shoot a puppy_.

“Hello?” Aegon calls out, tossing suspicious looks at the wolves. “Anybody there?”

“Maybe he got mauled by their mother,” Oberyn continues, surveying the estate with mild distaste. “Eaten by wolves. Ironic, really.”

“Oh for the love of God, Oberyn,” Mellario sends him an annoyed glare. “Just get it all out of your system now, why don’t you.”

The cubs, apparently deciding the newcomers aren’t incredibly exciting after all, vault back where they came from. The grey one, after deeming the hems of her dress inoffensive, yips loudly and bounds away as well. She watches as it shoots back through the halls, returning maids and guards squawking as the pups charge by.

“Duke Martell, Duchess Martell, my lords and ladies, many apologies for our tardiness,” a frazzled doorman says, bowing his head and shooting frustrated looks at the retreating pups. “Please, let us grab your things. Osney will escort you through when you’re ready.”

Mellario nods in response and ushers the group inside the estate. A young serving boy, presumably Osney, takes them through the halls and gives them a short tour. Rhaenys finds herself gawking; if the exterior of the mansion was grand, then the interior is more so. Gold-framed portraits and marble sculptures line the hallways, every surface is polished and shiny. Rhaenys can see her own bewildered expression looking back from a candelabra. The place is  _huge_. She could get lost here for days.

She knew the Targaryens were rich… but not to this extent.

“Aegon, Rhaenys!” a familiar figure calls, rushing over to meet them.

Even from a distance she can tell who he is. Jon looks exactly as he did seven years ago: somber, handsome, and grave-eyed. If someone can look even slightly attractive while brooding, it’ll be Jon—which is fortunate, considering he's always so serious. When he smiles and laughs though, it lights up his whole face and everything around him; Rhaenys can feel the giddiness swell in her as she sees her youngest brother. Aegon was already moving, running over to Jon and greeting him enthusiastically with a hug. She picks up the hems of her dress and jogs over after Aegon. Jon looks so happy to see them both, grabbing their shoulders and pulling them close.

“I missed you,” she whispers into his locks, thrilled to see that he’s still shorter than her.

“I’m so happy you’re both here,” he says sincerely, squeezing them tight before looking over their shoulders.

“And of course I’m honored to have you here with us, Lord Oberyn, Lady Mellario, Lady Ellaria.” Jon bows his head respectfully at them before turning to her cousins and offering his hand. “And you too, my lords and lady.”

Despite not having Oberyn’s hand or title, Jon treats Ellaria as if she were a respected member of the family, and Rhaenys feels a surge of fondness towards him for it. The slight look of approval in Oberyn’s eyes also show a lot. Her uncles have never hated Jon,  _per se_ , but they aren’t especially fond of the idea of him—or what he represents. It’s a hard truth to accept; Rhaegar had cared more about a family he hadn’t yet acquired than the one he had already established. Despite everything, she can’t find it in herself to hate Jon either. He couldn’t have helped the circumstances of his birth any more than she could have helped out back at Dragonstone. It was never their choices or their actions—it was fate. Fate and Rhaegar.

“Good morning, Lord Jon,” Mellario greets, nodding courteously at him. “If you could escort us in…?”

“Oh! Of course,” Jon gives her a small smile and gestures for them to follow him, Aegon and Rhaenys walking out front with him. 

“I have got to ask, why do you have wolves here?” Aegon turns to Jon. “They’re not your… pets, are they?”

“My cousins arrived with them a week ago,” Jon explains, running a hand through his hair sheepishly. “Direwolves are native animals in the north. The cubs were orphaned so Uncle Ned let my cousins take them in. I actually have one, just wait until you meet Ghost!”

“Wait, wait. You named your wolf Ghost?” Aegon shoots him a look, amused. “You have a mythical pet direwolf, and you’re naming it _Ghost_?”

Jon shoves him half-heartedly. “I was going to name him Snow… but that didn’t work out. And Ghost is a very unique name! It’s cool.”

“It really isn’t. Look, I don’t want to presume anything about the education up here in the north…” Aegon flings his arm around Jon’s shoulder.

“This isn’t even the north—”

“—you know those things eat people, right? They’re going to grow up as large carnivorous beasts, Jon. I will carve  _I told you so_  as your epitaph if you get mauled to death.”

Jon stutters something as Aegon laughs at him. “What? that’s not going to happen!”

Rhaenys rolls her eyes at them fondly. “Where’s our aunt and uncle?” she asks, eye catching on a rather grotesque looking Calacatta dragon sculpture. She can see Trystane gawking at it as well. “Are they home?”

She knows Viserys is back from Pentos, having finished his semester abroad. He was always kind to her and Aegon, writing to them often and inquiring about their wellbeing. She thinks she remembers him from when they used to live at Dragonstone, but she's not too sure. Daenerys has also acted kindly towards them, but she was never overly affectionate and rarely bothers to write. Rhaenys isn’t sure if she doesn’t quite like them, or if she just isn’t used to the distance between them.

“Vis and Dany are in town. Vis needs new clothes because he outgrew everything he left here… and Dany just wants any excuse to get away from this mess. They won’t be back until sundown.” Jon frowns, spinning around to talk to them. “This soiree is going to be the death of me, Rhaenys. The whole estate is walking on eggshells because of it.”

“Oh, you won’t get any sympathy from her,” Aegon says, sighing dramatically with an air of someone greatly inconvenienced. “She’s going to enjoy your suffering. Mine too, actually. Best we just accept our fates, brother.”

Rhaenys scoffs as her little brothers send her similar commiserating looks. “Take some responsibility, you’re practically men now,” she teases, skipping lightly away from their complaints. She has to dodge as little wolf cubs run by, completely unchecked, yipping their frustrations at the new arrivals. Maids and servants hastily move about, carrying luggage and clean linens, each looking more stressed than the last. Considering how wide these hallways are, she finds it funny that they still have to dodge each other. Rhaenys runs her gloves over a portrait, watching the silk catch on the edges of the frame, listening to the sounds of bustling in the background.

“Who did your family invite this season?” Rhaenys asks, turning back to her brother. "This is incredible... and to think, we're only among the first to arrive."

Jon frowns for a moment, counting on his hand. “The Baratheons of the Stormlands, Lannisters of the Westerlands, Tyrells of the Reach… the Daynes, Aunt Catelyn’s family, the Greyjoys from the Iron Isles… and the Arryns, I believe. It’s an open invitation, actually. Father wants to make this an occasion to remember,” Jon says with a sigh, shoving Aegon as he laughs at him.

“Look on the bright side, brother,” Rhaenys says, winking at him. “I’m sure there are many ladies waiting to cheer you up.”

He mutters something at her but she doesn’t hear him, choosing instead to explore ahead, constantly distracted by the opulent decor.

At the end of the hall they’re met by Duchess Lyanna. She's clearly been waiting for them, leaning gracefully against a window frame and glancing around boredly. With her black curls rolled into a tight chignon and dressed in an expensive-looking navy gown, she looked every part a noblewoman. She beams at her son before turning to their little party.

“Lord Oberyn, Ladies Mellario and Ellaria, welcome to the Crownlands,” Lady Lyanna politely greets, bowing her head infinitesimally. 

Oberyn is respectful enough to the lady, though Rhaenys knows he’s never truly warmed to the woman now holding his sister’s old titles. He only bows his head. Her cousins stiffly follow suit. Trystane’s frowning a little as they introduce themselves, but he blanches when Mellario sends them all warning looks. Lyanna turns away, graciously pretending she doesn't notice everybody's discomfort. Her smile does become more genuine when she sees Rhaenys and Aegon. 

“Aegon, Rhaenys, look how you’ve grown these last seven years,” she says quietly.

“You look well, Lady Lyanna,” Aegon tells her affably. “And your home is so beautiful.”

Rhaenys goes to repeat the sentiment but is stopped when Lyanna turns and really looks at her. Something akin to guilt and recognition flickers in Lyanna’s eyes and the woman freezes for a slight moment, her smile turning strained. Rhaenys knows she looks like Mother; she’s been told many times before. She gives Lyanna a small smile though, and gently takes the woman's hand in greeting. They might not be as close as she is with Jon, but Rhaenys doesn’t hate her. Not really.

Lyanna looks like she wants to say something, but the moment is disrupted when the large door behind them creaks open and someone steps out, shoes making sharp _clicks_ on smooth stone. Rhaenys is acutely aware who it is before even turning. Rhaegar Targaryen, looking especially sharp in his red morning coat and black pants, appears from the den behind them, not looking fazed or concerned at the sudden drop in conversation. Even Lyanna stiffens briefly at his presence, eyes drifting between him and Oberyn warily.

They stare at him for a few seconds before Aegon steps forward. “Father,” he greets, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “It’s been a long time.” Her brother looks like he’s debating something for a few moments, awkwardly bouncing on his toes before pulling Rhaegar into a loose hug. “Have you been well?”

Rhaegar seems pleasantly surprised, slowly returning the hug. He says something to Aegon, too low for them to hear, but her brother seems satisfied, smiling into the crook of Rhaegar’s neck. Rhaenys takes some time to glare at the back of his head, just to get it out of the way, so to speak, before stepping forward as well.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenys greets curtly. She watches as his eyes snap up to find hers, freezing when he catches sight of her. He releases Aegon slowly, and her brother slinks away, whispering something to Quentyn with his head bowed. She sees Jon watching them intently from beside Lyanna.

“Rhaenys,” Rheagar says, blinking slowly. “You’ve… grown up.”

She nods stiffly. “People tend to do that when time passes,” Rhaenys says lamely, mentally wincing at her own words. From behind Rhaegar's shoulders, Rhaenys can see Arianne drop her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth. 

“You seem healthy and well,” he continues, still staring at her. “You look so much like…”

He trails off, still looking at her intently. There is an instantaneous and imperceptible change in the air, she can’t place her finger on what it is, but she becomes acutely aware of what’s happening around them, a cold chill running down her spine. Lyanna has her face turned away from them, Jon a reassuring presence at her side. She can see her cousins shifting nervously around Oberyn, whose hands are clenched, face tight with fury. Ellaria slides her arm in his in a soothing gesture.

“Yes, so I’ve been told,” Rhaenys says after an awkward and lengthy pause. She smooths her dress down awkwardly.

He’s still staring at her.

“Lord Rhaegar,” Mellario interrupts coldly. “We’ve had a long journey… If you don’t mind, I’d rather not stand here too long.”

Rhaegar nods, eyes lingering on her and Aegon. “Of course, Duchess Mellario,” he says mildly, looking around the group. “I trust you’re acclimatizing well to the north? It isn’t as warm as Dorne, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh, it was pleasant until right about now,” Oberyn remarks snidely, Ellaria’s grip on his arm tightening warningly. “Must be the dust in the air—I have a thorn in my eye, you see.”

Rhaegar remains unperturbed, giving Oberyn an impassive look. The rest of them shift uncomfortably; Aegon and Jon exchange uncomfortable glances with each other, even Arianne, who thrives off drama, looks like she could rather be anywhere but here. Lyanna, bless her, cuts the silence with a graceful wave of her gloved hand. “My lords and ladies, surely you must be famished? Luncheon is this way, if you’ll follow me.” She gives her husband a hard look as she passes him. “My brother Ned has come from Winterfell with his family, I would like to introduce you to them.”

“Yes, of course, milady,” Trystane says, not bothering to hide his relief. “Come now, Uncle.”

Jon glances between Rhaegar and his mother quickly, evidently conflicted. He takes Lyanna’s arm, however, and the rest of the group follow. Rhaenys quietly watches Jon watching Aegon and Rhaegar. Rhaegar’s looking at Aegon with thinly veiled veneration; as if he forgot they undoubtedly carried his bloodline. They share the same indigo eyes, silver waves, lithe builds, and if it weren’t for Aegon’s olive skin, they would have looked like brothers. She and Jon take after their mothers; the coloring of their features wouldn’t pass as traditional Targaryen genetics to anybody. The lack of Targaryen features has never bothered her before, though seeing Jon’s furtive glances between their brother and father puts a bitter taste in her mouth.

Rhaenys is still mulling it over when they reach the tea room. There’s a palpable sense of relief when they’re introduced to the Starks, as if somebody had popped a balloon full of tension. Her cousins disperse immediately, eager to get away from Oberyn’s famously sunny disposition.

Lord Eddard and his lady wife are very gracious and kindly, if a little serious. Lady Catelyn gives her and Aegon warm smiles as they introduce themselves. She comments on trivial things before moving on, engaging Mellario with small talk and pleasantries. Oberyn shakes Lord Ned’s hand with a nod of respect, airily inquiring about Winterfell’s state of affairs. The Stark children are not as serious as their parents, running around after their pups despite chiding from Lady Stark. Rhaenys thinks she sees the youngest daughter mocking her lady mother, pulling faces and mimicking her movements, and laughs. They remind her so much of her cousins that she finds herself instantly warming to them.

Jon excitedly pulls their group over to meet Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, Lord Stark’s eldest son and ward respectively. Theon Greyjoy doesn’t look as though he’s completely comfortable being here, but he holds himself tall with pride. His smiles and jokes show an uncomfortable facade, but she recognizes determination and a desire to belong in his stormy grey eyes. From one outsider to another, she thinks they could get along okay—though she could do without him leering at Arianne as enthusiastically as he does. Robb Stark, on the other hand, looks incredibly comfortable among Dukes and Duchesses, though his closeness with Jon probably helps. He’s incredibly well-mannered and charismatic, tossing an arm around Jon’s shoulders and joking good-naturedly. He has his mother’s auburn hair and blue eyes, but the jaw and set of his face is very much the Duke’s. Unlike with Theon, Rhaenys thinks that every smile and laugh of his must be genuine and earnest.

“We heard your family would be arriving today,” Robb Stark says. “Sansa’s so excited to meet Jon’s siblings.”

Sansa Stark is standing demurely off to the side, dressed in an impeccable pink dress and with her hair styled fashionably in white ribbons. She is beautiful and Rhaenys has no doubt that people will be eager to fill her dance card this season. She’s also incredibly gracious and sharp, if a little shy, smiling and nodding throughout their introductions. Her eyes drift over Arianne’s gown. "That’s a beautiful dress, Lady Arianne.”

Arianne grins and takes Sansa’s arm in hers, walking her over to the tea tables. “And you have lovely taste, Lady Sansa. Join me for luncheon?”

“I’m afraid my cousin’s going to steal your sister’s company for the rest of our stay here,” Aegon tells Robb as they make their way back to the group. 

Servers pass them by, bringing out platefuls of fruits, cheeses, crumpets, and jams, expertly dodging the energetic wolf cubs. Rhaenys reaches out and plucks a few grapes from a passing tray, tossing one to Theon when she sees him looking. He grins at her before getting distracted by the incoming puppies. The small grey wolf from before bounds towards Robb, excitedly wagging its tail. “Grey Wind,” he coos, picking up the puppy, showing him off to the group. Grey Wind yowls at him, gnawing on the collar of his coat affectionately. Rhaenys reaches out when Robb spins Grey Wind to her, letting the pup sniff at her fingers, avoiding his little nips, before rubbing behind his ears. He whines at her.

“I think he likes you, Lady Martell,” Robb says, putting the wolf down and pulling out a chair for her. “Though I think he likes everybody.”

“I honestly thought they’d be more… wild. And please, call me Rhaenys, if Jon thinks of you as highly as he does, there’s no reason for us to be strangers.”

He gives her a bright grin. “They’re only wild if they’re provoked, La—Rhaenys. We’ve been training them. Father’s orders.”

"Is that so? How is that working out for you, milord?" she asks, grinning at him when he just gestures at his chewed out collar.

"It's getting there," he says with a laugh.

Luncheon was decidedly awkward for anybody sitting near Oberyn and Rhaegar. Her uncle was forking his cheeses so hard it was like he was wielding a weapon—no guesses to see who he wants to maim. Trystane looks mildly disturbed and scoots a little further away from him, glancing around awkwardly. Rhaegar, unperturbed by the tense atmosphere around his side of the table, continues to nibble at his crumpets and listen in with mild interest. Lyanna had valiantly kept conversation going, engaging Mellario and Ellaria in entertaining northern tales. Arianne and Sansa had taken to each other like houses on fire, gossiping in low voices and giggling between themselves. Theon Greyjoy was regaling her cousins and brothers with tales from the Iron Islands, gesticulating wildly.

“So, milord,” Rhaenys says, breaking the comfortable silence at their corner. “Is it common for northerners to keep direwolves as pets?”

“It is very unusual, milady,” Robb answers, laughing as his wolf begs more food off him. “Technically they're too dangerous to keep around, but that isn’t going to stop us, is it boy?”

There’s a little yip under the table.

Arya bodily leans over her sister to join in, much to Sansa’s annoyance. Robb ruffles her messy hair fondly as she pulls her plate closer to them. “Rhaenys, do you know how much puppies vomit?” the young girl asks excitedly. “Shaggydog vomited on Sansa on the way here—you should have seen her face!”

“Arya!  _Lady_  Rhaenys,” Robb reminds her. “She is the Duke’s daughter, remember?”

“But Jon—”

“—is our cousin, so you don’t have to call him lord if you don’t want to,” Robb chastises gently. “There will be other lords and ladies arriving soon, so you must remember, 'kay?”

“It’s fine, Robb,” Rhaenys interjects, seeing the pout on Arya’s face. “You can call me whatever you want, Lady Arya.”

Arya nods at her seriously and elbows Robb out of the way. He rolls his eyes as she crawls onto his lap, making herself comfortable by poking and prodding at his chest.

“Sorry, milord,” Rhaenys laughs at Robb’s resigned face. “It seems I’ve found better company.”

She watches as Arya regales her with stories from the north, Robb interjecting once in a while when she starts broadly and graphically exaggerating something. They start bickering amongst themselves as Rhaenys watches on, amused. She can see Arianne giving her a pointed look from across the table, mouthing the words “having fun?” as Sansa talks away beside her. She nods, surprised to find that she is enjoying herself, despite everything. One could almost forget Rhaegar Targaryen was seated right at the same table, if it weren’t for the way his eyes kept flickering between her and Aegon.

***

Jon takes them to the easternmost areas of the estate after luncheon, where high hills and cliff edges meet the Blackwater Bay. Warm afternoon rays split the sky in oranges and purples, its clouds fringed with pink blotches. Rhaenys basks in the light at the top of the cliffs, shawl wrapped tightly to keep the windy chill away. She can hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. White foam breaks so hard at the rocky surface that mist actually makes it past the cliff’s edge, spraying the air with sea salt. She stands there like some Byronic heroine, letting the salt wash over her in thousands of little pin pricks. It's peaceful up here. If she closes her eyes she could pretend she was flying, as light as a feather in the wind. Better yet, if she looks at the churning water below, she can imagine she's back in Dorne, visiting the towers at Starfall.  

From behind her, the wolf cubs run around the fields, chased by their excited young charges.

“No! Bran! Don’t get to close to the edge!” Jon calls out, watching as the boy chases his little Summer over the tall grass. Jon runs after him and catches him, sweeping up the laughing boy in his arms, and carrying him around on his shoulders. 

Trystane, absurdly happy to find out that there was a cub named similarly to their cousin, had taken to calling wolf Nymeria the “alpha Nymeria”, and was “helping” Arya train her wolf cub. Arianne laughs when Nymeria shakes her fur, flinging the two with dirt and grass. “Don’t let Mama see you like that!” she jeers, sitting on a boulder with Sansa. The Stark girl says something and they both break into giggles. 

Quentyn, Aegon, and Theon were talking, no,  _bragging_ , about their most outrageous wight kills. They're lounging on the grass like kings, no doubt staining every article of clothing they’re wearing. Aegon even has a dandelion crown resting on his head. “I strangled one with a fishing rope so hard its head popped clean off,” Theon was telling them, using his hands to graphically show the angle. “I had no weapons and no back-up. Bet you can’t top that!”

She shakes her head at them, picking up the hems of her dress and making her way down to join Jon and Robb. Jon spins around wildly before putting Bran down, but the excitable boy just shoots off again.

“Rhaenys,” Robb greets, watching as makes her way down to them. “Finally come to join us, milady?”

Jon frowns at Robb’s familiarity for the slightest second before being distracted by a small, snow-colored pup. It rushes for the cliff’s edge and Jon gives them a long-suffering sigh before chasing after it. She watches as her brother makes valiant efforts to catch his little cub, grinning at his antics.

“If I had stayed over there any longer my hair wouldn’t be salvageable, milord,” Rhaenys jokes, gesturing at the windswept braids. “And then my aunt will surely murder me.”

"It doesn't look too horrific," Robb says, grinning impishly at her. "I hear birds nests are in fashion, milady."

She rolls her eyes at him, wrapping her shawl tighter around herself. They stand there grinning at each other like children, wind-whipped and amused.

“Rhaenys, come join us when you’re finished over there!” Arianne calls, sliding off the boulder gracefully. She and Sansa make their way back to the groups, done with their private little conversations. Sansa was holding her small cub like an infant, cooing into her fur. Theon Greyjoy’s eyes linger as Arianne moves by, and Rhaenys would be annoyed at him if she didn’t know her cousin likes the attention. He’s still leering even as Quentyn shoves him roughly.

“How are you finding the Crownlands, Rhaenys?” Robb asks, pulling her back. “It is surely much colder than Dorne.”

“Much,” Rhaenys concedes. “But I find the cold to be quite refreshing, milord. It would be better under different circumstances, though.”

“How so?”

“I just haven’t been around Jon’s side of the family for a long time is all,” Rhaenys says. “I’m not very used to it.”

“Oh,” he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his navy coat. “Jon did say your family doesn’t visit often.”

“We haven’t visited, ever. As you can understand, we don’t exactly get along quite so well.”

She smiles at him uncomfortably, shuffling on her feet. It’s not as though the Starks doesn’t know what happened.

Robb seems just as tentative as she, but steels himself. “I had noticed. Would there be no chance of reconciliation, milady? The Targaryens have many acquaintances outside the Crownlands. Dorne could surely build new friendships and alliances?”

“Are you suggesting Dorne’s isolation is of our own doing?” Rhaenys asks, slightly confused and only a little cross. “We only retreated when we realized we weren’t exactly welcome, Robb. What happened all those years ago is proof, is it not?”

Robb runs his hand through his curls, “I am so sorry, milady. I didn’t then.” He straightens up, turning to look her in the eyes and rocking lightly on his feet. “What about Dorne now, what of the Martells? Do you not wish to build new bridges?”

“Depends on whether we deem them worthy to be built,” Rhaenys tells him, slightly impressed by his directness.  _Like father, like son_ , she supposes. “Where are you going with this thought?”

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, looking at her from under some loose curls, “the first step to mending relationships is letting go of old resentments. Even if it is not necessarily unfounded…” He visibly winces after saying his piece, trailing off awkwardly.

 _What the hell_. Rhaenys flounders for a moment, not wanting to sound rude in front of the Earl of Winterfell's son.

“Come again?” she demands, more than a little defensively. She’s so confused. Is he honestly blaming the Martells for their lack of contact with the rest of Westeros?

“Right then,” Theon announces awkwardly from behind them. “We’ll just go… and check on the children.”

Aegon looks quickly between her and the Stark boy, halfway to standing up. He clearly has something to say, but decides against it, giving Robb an appraising glance before turning and following Theon. Robb looks at their backs imploringly as they track down the hills, shifting on his feet. “I mean no disrespect, milady. But the Targaryens are the center of society. Building relationships with them would surely only benefit your standing among other aristocratic families. The Tyrells, the Tullys…” he pauses, shoving his hands in the pockets again. “The Starks…?”

Robb looks incredibly earnest, as if he truly believed that mending the relationship with Rhaegar would actually be beneficial for Dorne. It wasn’t as if the Martells were the wrongdoers in this situation. She might have been wrong in the assumption that other noble families had disliked Rhaegar Targaryen after all.  _He’s very close with Jon_ , she reminds herself.  _Of course he would think this_. Robb’s watching her closely, watching for any kind of reaction. “I see.” Rhaenys says, eager to end the conversation before they inadvertently insult each other anymore. “But perhaps,  _Lord Stark_ , you should let our family decide how we want to go about  _improving our standing_.”

He swallows at the distant use of his family name, and Rhaenys feels a quick sense of shame. He probably meant no harm at all—probably thought he was helping, actually.  _Typical northern sense of righteousness_ , she thinks to herself.  _Always trying to help others even when they have clearly crossed a line_. “I should go find Arianne. Thank you for the chat, milord.”

“Wait, Lady Martell!” Robb calls out, reaching for her hand but aborting. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed anything about your family… it is so incredibly rude and thoughtless of me.”

“I’m sure you meant to harm, Lord Stark,” Rhaenys says, not unkindly, before turning away and leaving him there with this thoughts.

She actually likes Robb Stark. He was charming, funny, easy on the eyes… a winning trifecta, as Arianne would say. She had wanted to get to know him better, but she’s not too sure anymore. Gods, what must he think of her, getting all defensive and angry in the face of his apologies? And who does he think he is? Telling the Martells how to act, as if they weren’t the victims here. She frowns down at her slippers, tracking her way down the hill. She barely makes it half-way before she gets intercepted.

Aegon hops off the boulder he was lounging on—trying to eavesdrop, no doubt—and slides his arm into hers. “What was all that all about?” he asks, glancing back towards Robb, who's still standing at the top of the hill, having not moved an inch.

“It wasn’t anything…” Rhaenys shrugs at him, sliding her arm around his waist and leaning against him, wind whistling in the background.

"If you say so, Rhae."

Aegon squeezes her back, a comforting weight by her side. She thinks she sees him glancing back at the Stark lord thoughtfully for a moment, before hooking his chin on her head, lording his height over her. Jon reemerges in the distance, he’s wrangling Bran on his shoulders and clutching Ghost in the crook of his elbow. They’re laughing loudly about something, and she waves when the little boy catches her eyes. They watch the children for a moment, leaning comfortably against each other on a boulder. Sansa and Theon have come to a disagreement about something or another, arguing with each other in the distance. Arianne watches bemusedly from the side. The rest are still lolling about lazily, off in their little groups. It’s peaceful and calming, and she finds herself mulling Robb’s words over in her head.

“Lady Rhaenys,” a prim maid says from behind them, making Aegon jerk in surprise. “His Grace the Duke would like a private word with you in his study.”

Aegon glances at the girl. “Shall I come too?”

“His Grace only wishes to speak with Lady Rhaenys,” the girl says, gracing Aegon with a simpering smile. She doesn’t give much away, but Rhaenys thinks she detects some distaste in those pretty blues. She bristles at the thought of a serving girl turning down her nose at the Duke’s son, and judging from her brother’s narrowed eyes, she wasn’t the only one to notice.

Aegon dismisses the serving girl with a wave and turns back to her. “I’ll come with you anyway?”

She glances around at the others; the Starks and Theon haven’t noticed anything yet, though she can see Quentyn glancing curiously over at them.

“I’ll go,” Rhaenys says, not wanting to make a scene. “I’ll talk to you later.” She gives Aegon’s wrist a squeeze before following the girl back into the mansion, her brother’s eyes boring into her back.

***

The serving girl must have walked her through a very scenic route, because Rhaenys is feeling rather dizzy from all the twists and turns they’d taken. She’s a little lost, though that could just be her anxiety acting up again. They pass through more halls, climb more stairs, but the scenery just kind of blends together. Usually, Rhaenys can concentrate fine. She hasn’t felt his kind of bouncy, cloud-like distraction in her mind in years. She hates it and she hates how irritable it makes her feel. This is all Rhaegar’s fault. She knows it is.

The girl gestures to a large wooden door and tells her that the Duke is waiting. She stands there watching Rhaenys with hawkish eyes, waiting for her to enter. Rhaenys closes the door heavily in the girl’s irritating face, not caring how rude it was.

The quiet  _thud_  sounds like a death knell.

“You wanted to see me?” Rhaenys asks, not bothering with the pretenses. She desperately wants to be anywhere but here; alone with him and with only a mahogany table separating them.

Rhaegar pauses by the table where he’s slowly standing from the ornate chair. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, Rhaenys,” he says, leaning against the table with his hands. “But this is of some importance.”

“Of course. I’m listening,” Rhaenys says, crossing and uncrossing her arms. She’s being rude and petty. She _knows_  she should stop, but sometimes it takes a while for her actions and thoughts to agree with each other. There’s nobody else in here to back her up if she accidentally says something she can’t take back. She sighs, taking a shameful amount of time to uncross her arms, trying for a relaxed position.

“Your brothers are of marrying age,” Rhaegar begins, turning to the windows. “I aim to find respectable matches for both of them.”

There’s a lengthy pause.

“As you’re my daughter, I’ll also be looking out for your prospects… Despite the distances we keep within our family.”

Rhaenys nods silently. He frowns a little at her silence, but continues anyway. “I just don’t want you to be concerned, I do have your best interests at heart, no matter what you may believe, Rhaenys.”

“I believe many things, Rhaegar,” she replies tartly. “But some things must be proven true first.”

He gives her a hard stare, flattening the parchments on his table absentmindedly. “Aegon doesn’t seem to possess your antagonistic streak,” he says mildly. “Something I was hoping you would have grown out of. No doubt a result of Oberyn’s and Doran’s influences.”

“Excuse me?” Rhaenys grinds out, staring him down despite Rhaegar being over a head taller. “Influences? Anything I feel about you—anything at all, is completely founded. Don’t go blaming my uncles for actually raising me.”

She viciously enjoys the flinch he gives at her tone. “You have no right to assume anything from my childhood, Rhaegar. Or Aegon’s, for that matter,” Rhaenys takes a few deep breaths. “Say your piece so that I may leave.”

He clenches his jaw, looking away from her and gesturing towards some loose parchments on his desk. “I’ve received letters. The Marquess of Storm’s End wishes for you and his eldest, Lyonel, to be joined in matrimony.”

“A Baratheon?” she asks, staring at the parchments in confusion. “Robert Baratheon hates the Targaryens.”

Rhaegar turns and gives her an unimpressed look. “I know that. He despises me because of my Lyanna. But he wants a peace treaty and I intend to give it to him.”

Rhaenys stares at him, opening and closing her mouth wordlessly. “Have you talked to my uncles about this—this proposal?”

“Why should I have to?” Rhaegar asks impetuously. “I am your father.”

“They have been raising me. For almost two decades.” Rhaenys grits out. “They have just as much of a say as you do, probably more. They deserve to know!”

Rhaegar clenches his fists. “What does that mean?”

“You don’t have custody over me, remember that little fact?” Rhaenys demands, pushing herself off the door to level a glare at him. “You haven’t been around long enough to use me like this. What happened to _my_ best interests? This seems like it’s in nobody’s interests but yours!”

“I haven’t been there because you and your uncles haven’t allowed me to be!” Rhaegar retorts harshly. “I write you letters, you don’t reply. When I’m allowed to visit, you don’t talk to me. You have never given me a chance!”

“And you know bloody well who’s fault that is,” Rhaenys says cruelly, clenching her fists tight. “Don’t you?”

He stares her down, jaw clenched. Even without displaying any form of real emotion right now, she can feel his fury wash over her. Rhaenys looks away from him, towards his bookshelves that are stacked high with tomes, taking a few deep breaths. She thinks the room is spinning, but she isn’t too sure. 

 _Calm down. Don’t cause a scene_ ,  _don’t cause a scene. Remember to breathe, Rhaenys_. She rubs at her eyes tiredly.

“Look, Jon loves you. And Aegon—well, he deserves the chance to love you,” Rhaenys says, trying for a calm and respectable tone, looking down at her slippers and back up again. “I love my brothers. I care about them and they care about you. I don’t want them to see us fighting, okay? I’m going to  _politely_  ask you to rescind that agreement with Robert Baratheon.”

She takes another deep breath, walking over to the mahogany desk so she could look him in the eyes properly. “I won’t protest any other offers you make, as long as you consult my uncles first. And that you do it in my interests as your daughter. Is that fair?”

She stares at him, watching as his indigo eyes flash with frustration. Rhaegar looks like he still has something to say, frowning into his hands. “I'll take that into consideration then. Does that please you, Rhaenys?”

It's not a no, but it'll do. Rhaenys nods awkwardly. “Yes, it does..." She shifts awkwardly on her feet. "I guess we're done here.”

She turns to leave but Rhaegar stops her in her tracks.

“Rhaenys, wait. Please look at me,” he pleads, walking around the desk to look at her. “I know I’ve wronged your mother, you, and your brother to an unforgivable extent. I’m so deeply regretful about what happened…" Rhaegar clenches his hands, seemingly folding into himself. "I know you want nothing to do with me outside of Jon... but will you find it in your mercy to let me be your father again?”

He runs his hands through his hair, looking up at her with earnest indigo eyes. Waiting.

She stares back at him, dumbfounded for a small moment. 

“Being regretful doesn’t bring back the dead—wights do! I don’t want your platitudes or your apologies. I want recognition for the sacrifices and losses dealt because you were being so incredibly selfish!” Rhaenys hisses, shocked that he even tried such a weak apology. 

“That is not what happened! I… fell out of love with your mother… And then I met Lyanna…”

“Yes, and we all paid the price for your wandering affections.”

He winces and glances away, turning to the large bay window, shoulders stiff. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know what I’ve lost—what we’ve all lost?”

“I think you know it, objectively. But I don’t think your remorse amounts to very much,” Rhaenys says bitterly, glaring at the back of his head. “Aegon and I lost our mother. Stop acting the victim here.”

She looks at the defeated hold in his shoulders, takes note of the dark purple under his restless eyes and wonders what anybody saw in him. What they still see in him. How was this man one of the greatest, most sought after nobles in Westeros? She can’t be bothered to feel pity for this man. He exhausts her so, disarms her so. He makes her feel like a child, makes her mind muddled and her thoughts erratic. Rhaenys hates him and hates that he did this to her. _Does_  this to her.

She can’t stop her next question even if she tried. She’s tired, and she wants to know. “Actually, I have a question,” Rhaenys starts, leaning against the table. “What was your plan, exactly?”

“Excuse me?” Rhaegar looks confused for a moment.

“After you took off with Lady Lyanna,” Rhaenys enunciates slowly, coldly. She traces the grooves of his desk with her glove. “Polygamy is illegal. Your current marriage is only lawful because the House Lords couldn’t verify you weren’t widowed at the time.”

He looks away and she thinks she sees a flash of guilt. “I—I was going to legalize the marriage,” he says carefully. “Void my marriage with your mother on the terms of consanguinity.”

There’s a moment of silence. She’s not sure how long it lasted. Minutes, probably.

“Consanguinity?” Rhaenys snaps. “You were going to annul on the basis of a blood relation?  _Are you fucking kidding me?_ ”

He winces at the shrill volume of her voice. She’s so angry she’s seeing red, mind spinning.  _Why the fuck did I ask_? _Why why why_? _I didn’t want to know. I don’t want to know. He was going to publically humiliate her further_.  _He was_ —

“Rhaenys!” Rhaegar cuts in, staring worriedly as she hyperventilates in front of him. “I wasn’t going to set aside you and Aegon, I swear.”

“Oh really? Then what else could you have done?” Rhaenys spits, mind still reeling. “Were you going to void Mother’s claim to Aegon and I as well?”

“I wouldn’t have kept you away from her, Rhaenys look at me, please,” Rhaegar pleads, walking over. She flinches away from him.

“You’re disgraceful… Don’t you bloody touch me!” she says, staggering backwards and flattening herself against the door.

He visibly jerks back, pained.  _Good_ , she thinks fiercely.  _Let him be_ ,  _it’s what he deserves_.

“So you were planning on publically humiliating her throughout the annulment? You wanted to do that to your lawful-wedded wife?”

She’s breathing so hard, blinking back tears she didn’t know were running. She roughly wipes her face on the wrists of the gloves, giving him her hardest glare.

“Because I can’t think of a single reason how that could have helped you,” she hisses wetly. “Mother would have taken everything—because you’re at fault here and you know it. Infidelity? That’s on you!”

“Rhae—”

“No, don’t you try to cut me off right now! Mother would have gotten custody of us. She definitely would have gotten Dragonstone for Aegon. Hell, she could have taken Summerhall as well… She would have won it all from you… You disgusting fu—”  Rhaenys spins away, shaking with a cold fury. She bites down on her tongue so forcibly that she tastes copper in her mouth.

“You were probably relieved she passed away weren't you… Make it so easy for you to legitimize Jon!”

Rhaegar flinches at her accusation, paling dramatically before regaining his posture. “How dare you speak to your father that way,” he demands suddenly, eyes flashing and voice tight with fury. “How dare you insinuate I wanted to hurt Elia?”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

“You hurt her anyways! There are more pains than the just the physical and you inflicted all of them on her!” She can’t believe him. She can’t fucking believe him! Rhaenys clenches her hands, not trusting herself not to do something rash.

“I… I didn’t mean to.” Rhaegar’s voice breaks. His face falls, it crumples in front of her eyes. There is a shell of a man in front of her, yearning for comfort, and she doesn't bring herself to care. She looks down at this unsatisfactory excuse of a father… And she pities him.

Rhaegar slumps against the table, misery writ in his frame.

“You need not fear about Jon’s inheritance, if that is your concern,” Rhaenys says coldly, considering him. “I’m not a completely contemptuous bitch.”

Rhaenys is so furious now that she's completely bypassed her anxiety and gone straight to apoplectic. No, she's surpassed that straight to _blissed-out livid_. She spins on her feet, feeling light. She’s so tired but she feels so lively at the same time. It feels  _good_ _._

“I could hurt you so badly,” she says, staring distantly out the window. “This annulment idea will ruin you. Nobody with any sense of pride would want to be associated with you… They’d think Jon might be a bastard. He’ll never marry with prospects.”

Her mind is still running, too fast and confusing for her to actually process anything. It’s all a little foggy, actually. She turns to him, taking great pleasure in his pale face. “But I don’t need to do very much. You and I both how people talk, don’t we?”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow as he turns to look at her. “Yes, I know what they say,” he says tightly, hands clenched.

“They say Lady Lyanna is a wanton light-skirt and that Jon shouldn’t be inheriting anything—among other little rumors...” Rhaenys smooths her dress, catching his eyes coldly. “Imagine what they’ll say when they realize you had no intention of making amends with your lawfully-wedded wife. That you wanted to take everything from her. The beloved mother who almost died giving birth to your children. What will they say then, Rhaegar?”

Rhaenys makes a wide, sweeping motion with her hand, gesturing to the whole estate, bouncing lightly on her toes, voice cruel and mocking. “Imagine what you can lose.”

“You love Jon,” Rhaegar points out tightly. “You wouldn’t hurt him just because you hate me.”

 _Do I love him_ ,  _though?_  the snarling voice at the back of her mind asks.  _Do I really?_

She quells it forcefully.

And takes a few deep breaths.

“You’re right. _Hah_. I wouldn’t hurt him. I’m also not going to hurt Lady Lyanna. You want to know why?” Rhaenys demands, not letting him speak. “Because I actually hold some modicum of respect for her. She doesn’t need to be hurt anymore just because you ruined her!”

“I didn’t ruin her!” he yells back, frustrated and _finally_ showing some real emotion. “We were in love!”

 _You don't know how to love_ , a voice accuses him.

“She’s less than thirteen years older than me!” Rhaenys exclaims. “Barely an adult when you ran off with her. She has to live with  _that_  reputation for the rest of her life!”

“How dare you! You don’t know anything about what happened!” Rhaegar snaps, eyes wild. “Nobody understands but they like making up their theories! I am your father and I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I understand enough!” Rhaenys yells back wetly. “I was there. With my Mother. I know exactly what happened.” She leans against the door, trembling hard. “I know that she thought you were going to come back… I know that I screamed for you when there was nobody else and you weren’t there.”

She closes her eyes, throat burning. “Why weren't you there...?"

Rhaegar's breathing hard, eyes tracking her wildly as she speaks. Her voice catches and she has difficulty swallowing around the lump in her throat. "I know more than you will ever hope understand,” she whispers to him, voice breaking.

He stares at her, face pale and stricken, frozen on the spot. She lets him have his moment, too exhausted to do much else. What else is there to do?

The heavy silence is broken by a knock against the door.

“My Lord? Is everything alright? We heard shouting…” a meek male voice calls from the other side.

Rhaenys moves subconsciously, opening the door tiredly and sliding past the curious serving boy. Rhaegar says something but it sounds garbled in her ears.  _I need some air_ , she thinks dizzily.  _I need some air and I need to get out of here_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Both Elia and Rhaegar are descended from Naerys, Aegon IV, and the Prince of Dorne (I believe)…so it _could_ technically count as a blood relation. It’s a huge reach, but still better than D &D’s “newer and more legitimate Aegon! Elia whom?” nonsense.
> 
> This chapter was ridiculously hard to write; I hope Rhaenys, with all her disjointed thoughts and anxiety came through well!


	3. The Last Day of Summer

###### 10 IN THE MORNING    Jon Targaryen of the Crownlands

Jon watches apprehensively as servants carry luggage and gifts through the halls. Below him, Father and Mother greet Lady Olenna, the Marchioness of Highgarden, and her family. With the way everybody was gushing about, one would think they took an exhausting journey across great oceans and not a decidedly short one from the Reach. Even the Greyjoys made less of a fuss when they arrived.

Olenna’s shrews eyes make him feel edgy, and he finds himself wholly distrusting her. Her grandchildren—Lords Willas, Loras, and the Lady Margaery—look around with mild curiosity as she talks to his parents. Margaery catches his eye and Jon thinks he sees her surreptitiously sizing him up. His discomfort skyrockets; it’s as if he was being put on display, to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

“Yes, Leonette is expecting,” Olenna was saying primly. She subtly scrutinizes his parents. “Garlan sends his regards, of course.”

_It’s a miracle,_ Jon thinks. _That she hasn’t gone blind from all that squinting_.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a tap against his shoulder. Robb leans against the balustrade, glancing down at the Tyrells with interest. “Shouldn’t you be down there with them?” his cousin asks, knocking him with his knee. “You’re the man of the hour, remember?”

“Don’t remind me. I’m trying not to get accosted up here,” Jon mutters as Robb laughs at him. Gods, it must be so easy being Robb. He can handle the crowds and social drivel with ease.  _Him and Aegon both_ , Jon thinks begrudgingly. He glances up the staircase, but it's still empty. “Where are the rest of your family?” Jon asks instead, sensing as Robb slides down to sit next to him.

They watch as Olenna introduces her family to the household staff, his parents nodding cordially off to the side.

“Luncheon with Uncle Brynden and Uncle Edmure,” Robb answers, playing with his collar. “I begged off early. I’m looking for your sister, actually.”

_Yeah, you and me both,_  Jon thinks bitterly. He looks over at his cousin. Robb’s leaning nonchalantly back on the steps, elbows crooked awkwardly. "Why're you looking for Rhaenys?"

“I fear I gave her the wrong impression the other day and I want to apologize. I can’t find her anywhere, though.”

“What kind of wrong impression?” Jon asks distractedly. Father is gesturing towards the stairs and he winces as the Tyrells take note of them, sitting unprofessionally on the steps like children. Willas looks mighty amused by something, and Jon shifts uneasily. He’s pretty sure the Tyrells just found him wanting.

Robb runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, giving him a crooked smile and ignoring the others. “A misunderstanding of sorts. I wanted to be polite but I probably came off like a boor. I thought your siblings would be with you?”

Jon glances up the stairs again but still doesn’t see anybody. In the last three days since her family arrived, Rhaenys had been quiet and distant. She’d given them unconvincing, foreign smiles during mealtimes and would always disappear afterwards. Aegon had been present, but Jon could tell he was equally distracted. Nobody had said anything to him and he can’t help but feel a little jealous. He’s surrounded by friends and family but this sense of exclusion makes him feel lonelier than ever.

“They’re with the Daynes, last I checked,” Jon answers mildly.

The Daynes had arrived yesterday, along with the Arryns and Aunt Catelyn’s family. Everybody had seemingly gotten along—as well as facetious high society members do—but there was no denying the obvious underlying tension between the younger Dayne and Father. They had been curt and cold with each other, shaking hands tensely and speaking in uncongenial tones. Considering what he knows about their friendship, it was depressingly awkward to see.

Jon sighs defeatedly when he sees Mother gesturing for them to come downstairs. He generously ignores Robb's bemused snort.

“Unto to breach,” he mutters to his cousin. “We bail at the first chance, okay?”

“This is your ball,” Robb laughs, pulling himself up. “Not your execution, cheer up.”

Jon just glares at his insufferably amused face when they trek down to meet the rest. The serving boys take them in for tea as they introduce themselves to the Tyrells. Lady Margaery smiles beatifically at them, and Jon's reservations about the Tyrells aside, he feels rather drawn to her. She’s very beautiful, he recognizes. Even Robb stares a little as she smoothly spins away in a sweep of honey-colored curls.

His aunt and uncle are already in the tea room. Lady Lysa and her husband, the Marquess of the Vale, are also there, enjoying tea and chatting amicably with Daenerys. Robin Arryn sits between them, loudly tapping his silverware against the table. Viserys shoots him an irritated look. He has the morning paper clenched in his hands and clearly couldn't be bothered with any small talk.

Olenna takes a sweep of the table as tea is poured. Something thoughtful and observant flashes in her eyes. “Where are your eldest two, Your Grace?” she asks, spooning some sugar into her tea. “Not joining us?”

Before Father could answer, Robin,  _bloody Robin_ , cuts in. “Aren’t they Elia Martell’s children? Why would they be here?”

His shrill little voice, and his clueless yet somehow smug-looking face infuriates Jon. He sees Mother and Father stiffen in his peripheral vision. Lord Arryn reprimands his son harshly, much to the offense of his wife. “He’s just a boy!” she trills, pulling him closer to her body as Robin’s face crumbles. “He doesn’t know any better!”

“My nephew and niece,” Viserys cuts in coolly. “Are Targaryens by birthright. My late sister Elia was a respectable and kind woman, she was also a Duchess so you will address her that way.”

Viserys stares the boy down and Robin shrinks against his mother. Lysa glowers at him coldly but says nothing else, turning away from the table in repugnance. He glances over and sees Mother stiffly reaching for a muffin, clearly angry at the guests but not wanting to make a scene. Father just looks at Viserys, evidently deep in thought. Jon’s actually thankful for Viserys' interruption, he had felt himself gearing up for a fight, and wouldn't that give the Tyrells such a great impression? A grown nobleman, arguing with a little boy.

Robb squirms in his seat awkwardly, shooting wary glances between Viserys and Robin. From across the table he can see Olenna watching the proceedings with thinly disguised interest. She turns and engages Daenerys and Willas in conversation, though there is something thoughtful in the way she holds herself, in the way she would occasionally rake her eyes over to his parents.

Jon glumly reaches for a crumpet. It’s going to be a long day, he can tell.

 

 

###### 11 IN THE MORNING    Rhaegar Targaryen of the Crownlands

Rhaegar fingers at the pages of his journal absentmindedly, picking up a quill only to drop it again. Morning tea with the Tyrells was nothing short of a disaster. He’s distracted by Viserys; thoughts jumbled and confusing. Rhaegar sighs, tossing the journal and quill aside, cutting a sharp black line though today’s reflections. He watches as black ink bleeds to the edges, sticking wet pages together.

Growing up, his brother had always been a little cold, a little distant. (He doesn’t think about how Viserys had looked at him, when he found out what had happened to Elia—about why he can’t play with little Rhaenys anymore.) Rhaegar thought it was just how Viserys coped, with neither a mother nor a father to raise him. He didn’t think that Viserys actually remembered the times before Lyanna came into the family.  _Ten was so young_ , Rhaegar tells himself.  _I didn’t think you remembered, you never mentioned anything to me_.

He pushes back from the desk with a sigh and contemplates the fields over the estate, where a light drizzling of rain splatters against the bay window. Guiltily, Rhaegar recognizes that he was never really present for his family. He was always off, chasing down his dreams and avocations. If he was home then he’d have his head stuck in the books or distracted by the harp. It wasn’t until Jon’s birth had he been truly grounded: a proper family man at last. Too little, too late perhaps. Blood had been spilled and judgments had been made.

_How it all comes back to bite at me, piece by piece._

Rhaegar stares at a tall pine, its branches rustling in the wind. It seems that only Daenerys doesn’t blame him for what happened. His sister admires him, wants to  _be_  like him. It's troubling—there are better people in the world for her to revere. Better, more honorable people. The branch snaps forcefully and he gazes down at the splintered wood. Aegon doesn’t hold him to blame either, but they’ve never been particularly close. Rhaegar presses his cheek against the cool of the glass, closing his eyes. He thinks about Rhaenys, about their argument. It’s so fitting, isn’t it? To have Elia’s face scream and shout at him. Have her righteous anger whittle away at him until there’s only bone and blood and regret.

Rhaegar misses his family so badly—he misses what’s right in front of him. One could look at Lyanna’s family and think:  _that’s what I want_.

Lyanna had been visibly distraught when he told her what happened. They had kept the annulment plans sequestered away after Elia had passed; there was enough misery in Westeros without this news being spread around. She had understood why Rhaenys needed to know, but even she wasn’t best pleased with how he delivered the news. Rhaegar can’t even do right by his wife, it seems.

The sound of his door swinging open brings him back to reality. Rhaegar’s about to reprimand whoever it is for not knocking when he sees who’s blocking the doorway. Arthur Dayne, face stormy, pushes his way into the study. He looks like he’s physically squaring up for a fight.  _The man always did have a presence_ , Rhaegar thinks.

“Do make yourself at home, please,” he says sarcastically.

Arthur sends him a harsh glare, closing the door behind himself. Gentle, despite the look on his face.

“What brings you here?” Rhaegar asks him. “You have made your feelings about my… presence abundantly clear.”

“You wanting to annul your marriage with Elia,” Arthur grinds out, going straight to the point. He was never one to beat around the bushes anyways. “You wanting to take the children from their mother? I think you know why I’m here.”

Rhaegar leans against his bookshelf, crossing his arms as some form of inadequate defense against Arthur's fury. “I take it Rhaenys divulged everything?”

“Of course she did,” Arthur replies shortly. “I just wanted to hear it straight from you. See what you have to say for yourself.”

Rhaegar just looks imperceptibly back at him, silent.

Arthur examines his face for a moment and chuckles wryly when he finds his answer. “Rhaenys came to me because she doesn’t know how to approach her uncles. You know how Oberyn will react. The Gods themselves won’t help you when he finds out you wanted to humiliate Elia that way. He may have ‘cooled off’ about you running away…” Arthur scoffs. “But a secret annulment? He’ll kill you a thousand times over and it wouldn’t satisfy him.”

“Did you come in here just to rub it in?” Rhaegar snaps. “I’m fully aware of Oberyn’s temper.”

“No, I don't think you are!” Arthur retorts testily. “I think you needed to hear it. Doran and Oberyn don’t need any more incentive to despise you..." His friend turns away, fists clenched. "And I want you to know something. I followed you, back then, when I should have been there with Elia.” Arthur straightens up, and despite them being the same height, Rhaegar actually finds the move threatening, imposing even. “I’m here for her now. You had better not hurt her children and you better think twice about going near their inheritances.”

Arthur stares at him. "You know you'll lose if you try, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar looks back defiantly. He’s always been impressed by his drive, loyalty, and determination. When his old friend had followed him instead of staying at Dragonstone, Rhaegar had been so relieved. If Arthur,  _righteous golden boy Arthur_ , had backed him up, how could it be wrong?

Well, the things that they say about hindsight...

“I won’t hurt them.” Rhaegar tells him quietly, honestly. “I can’t lose them again.”

Arthur scrutinizes him but doesn’t say anything. He must see something in Rhaegar’s eyes because he nods decisively and leaves, closing the door with a resounding  _thud_. Rhaegar just stares numbly at the polished wood.

Something akin to shame coils in his gut.

 

 

###### 12 IN THE AFTERNOON    Doctor Caleotte of Dorne

Caleotte opens the windows, letting in the fresh, warm air. There had been such a mess with the recent scouting party that the whole clinic feels overbearing and stuffy.

He settles down next to a recovering scout, resting a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead. “How are you feeling today?” Caleotte asks, scribbling down the patient’s temperature. He leans in to check eye dilation. All normal.  

“I feel fine,” the boy says, shifting under the thin blankets. “A little cold though.”

He retakes his temperature but doesn’t note anything of interest. “Physically, you’ve recovered,” he tells the boy. “You might be coming down with a light fever. Change in seasons can do that. What else do you feel?”

Caleotte discretely checks the boy’s pulse rhythm as he lists his symptoms: some chill in his bones, minor dizziness, a lingering thirst, but no muscle aches. An unusual fever, perhaps? He writes down the symptoms for later clarification but gives the boy an all clear. “Okay, I think you are fine to head home, young sir,” Caleotte tells him, and the boy looks instantly happier at the news. “Remember to eat regularly and keep hydrated. Absolutely no scouting until you come back for a check-up.”

The boy nods enthusiastically, thanking him and taking his leave. Caleotte watches as he says goodbye to his friends. It’s hard to think about how young this scouting party was; they seem to be getting younger and younger each year. It’s a little saddening. He shakes his head and goes about checking and discharging the other patients, taking in the shared fever-like symptoms. He makes a mental note to notify the other physicians. They might be facing an aggressive flu season this year, which,  _joy_.

He finds himself stalling near a young girl. She has a healthy pallor and appetite, but is shivering lightly despite the warm weather. He checks her temperature at the tongue and through the ear, though everything is checking out okay. “How are you feeling today?” he asks, examining her pupils.

“A little cold, Doc,” the young girl says. “It doesn’t feel bad, I think. Just odd.” She huddles deeper under the thin blankets.

Caleotte thinks about it for a moment. As head physician, he often only focuses on the more urgent, life-threatening cases; usually wights, plagues, or the likes. He doesn’t deal with the seasonal fever—he has neither the time nor the space.

The young girl just blinks plaintively at him.

“Alright, I’m going to keep you for a just bit longer,” he tells her, wetting a cloth in warm water and laying it on her forehead. “I'll monitor your cold and we'll see how it goes.”

He's just making sure she's comfortable when his clinic door forcefully opens. Cletus Yronwood barges in, holding an injured scout under his arm. Mors Manwoody and an unknown boy follow with more injured men and women. “Gods, what happened?” Caleotte demands, rushing over to take a pale, shaking boy from their hands. They drop the injured into empty straw beds, diligently stripping their outercoats and making sure everyone's settled in well.

“Another scouting party,” Cletus explains. “We had the rest dropped off at nearby physicians.”

_Fits and boils_ _,_  Caleotte categorizes, scanning the group with a sharp eye. Another wight attack.

It takes them a while, but eventually they get everyone settled. He gestures for the boys to rest, taking note of their exhaustion. “What else can you tell me?” he asks, pouring out some sweet tea. It’s citrusy and good for the immune system. He makes sure they drink some.

“The same as last time,” Cletus explains, blowing the steam off his tea. “They’re untrained. Got distracted and sloppy.”

Mors looks around at the restless bodies, shrugging. “But at least they’re all alive. And nobody is missing, either,” he says. “Thank goodness.”

Caleotte nods. No deaths is always good news. He’ll gladly take the sleepless nights for this. He turns to the strange boy.  “And who are you, young man?”

“Daemon, sir,” the boy says proudly. “I’m a knight-in-training. I was taken in by Lord Allyrion as a ward. By his good nature, I suppose.”

He’s seemingly unbothered by his lack of parentage, sitting tall in his stool. A talented, proud orphan then, if he's actually to be a knight. _Can never have too many knights_ , he thinks. _Not in this damned world_. Caleotte pats him on the shoulder and leaves them to the tea, too busy for a sit and chat. He starts pulling out fresh linens for the new patients as the boys talk amongst themselves, mentally checking off what needs to be done before the day ends.

A lot, he surmises. The work of a physician is never over.

 

 

###### 1 IN THE AFTERNOON   Lyanna Targaryen of the Crownlands

With the guests settling in and getting reacquainted with each other, Lyanna finally has some time to herself. She upends another drawer, shaking out the contents forcefully. She’s frustrated and distracted, still thinking about the Arryn boy. One would assume that Jon and Lysa had instilled that boy with manners, but apparently not. 

A steady knock at the door distracts her. “Lya?” Ned calls. “You in there?”

“Yeah, come in!”

She’s still rummaging through the large study table when he enters, pulling out parchments and journals, flicking through them and tossing them about carelessly. The heat is making her long, dark locks stick to her face, and she roughly sweeps it aside with a huff of annoyance.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs with your husband?” her brother asks, watching as she scrambles about.

“Rhaegar can handle himself fine,” Lyanna says dismissively. She stretches, feeling her back crack satisfactorily. “There’s just something I need to do first,” she mutters, pulling out another drawer and shaking its contents onto the floor.

Ned comes around to look curiously at her. He bends down and rifles through the mess nosily. “Lose something?”

Lyanna worries her lip between her teeth, an annoying habit she’s taken to recently, and glances around at the contents strewn about. “Could you, um, lock the door please?” she asks quietly. Ned sends her a worried glance and complies, checking the hallways and effectively sealing them in the den.

“Alright, what’s the matter?” he asks, dropping down next to her on the floor. He’s looking both concerned and bemused by her antics.

She thinks about how to properly word her problem, sighing frustratedly. “You know how Rhaegar and I...” Lyanna begins, trying to pick out her words. She sees Ned shifting warily. He always seems hesitant when she brings up Rhaegar. “Wanted to annul Lady Elia’s marriage?” she finishes in a rush.

_Real smooth, Lyanna_.

Ned’s frown deepens as he looks away. He had known, of course. She had confessed everything after the funerals, dropping into his arms in grief. He might not have been pleased with her at the time, but he only wanted what was best for their family… Ned had helped them hide these secrets for seventeen years; his love for Jon and her overriding any sense of honor he must have felt. 

_Blessed Ned_ , she thinks with a surge of affection.  _Always standing by me, even when he doesn’t agree with me_. She loves him so, so much.

“Yes?” Ned replies. He leans back on his arms, looking extremely suspicious.

“Rhaenys knows the annulment. And maybe Aegon, too,” she rakes her hand through her messy hair, pulling out the bandeau and tossing it clear across the room. “It’s just—if they want to hate us for what we did then I can’t blame them. I just hope they’ll listen to my side of the story.”

"Okay," Ned says slowly, evenly. "I can see why you would want to, but what are you doing here, exactly?"

Lyanna glances around at the mess. “I was going to start by showing them this letter we received,” she explains. “It was from a judge. He had influence with a few House Lords… he told us how we could have gone about annulling legally… as well as how to keep custody of the children.”

“What sort of judge would even do that?” Ned demands. “That is unbelieveably unethical.”

“It was Maynard,” Lyanna replies, turning away from her brother with shame. “And I know it was wrong, but I still wanted it." She groans. "I have to fix this.”

She kicks at a pile frustratedly when a worn piece of parchment catches her eye. She pulls it from under the mess, rolling it open and scanning it quickly.  _Thank the Gods._  Lyanna could almost cry with relief, she can’t imagine what would have happened if they had lost this letter—or let it fall into the wrong hands. Ned eyes the parchment as if it were poisonous, frowning as she clutches it tightly.

“Rhaenys has been avoiding us. She’s been melancholic and brooding for days,” she tells Ned, rolling the parchment with great care. “She tries to hide it but I’ve been married to Rhaegar for seventeen years. I know those moods.” Lyanna shoots him a humorless smile. “They’re quite alike, those two. If I know anything about it,  _and I do_ , then it means she's really upset, possibly beyond forgiveness even.”

Ned frowns at the parchment, watching as she slips it into her spencer pocket. “You’re going to show them the letter. Are you sure that’s the best course of action, Lya?”

She nods. “I’m sure. We should have told the children before… Should have never tried to hide it, but now with Jon’s ball... the timing couldn't be worse.”

Ned pulls her into his arms, and she turns her head into his shoulder. His hold is always so comforting. “When Rhaegar took his men, do you remember who was left at Dragonstone?” Lyanna whispers. His arm tightens around her. “The Dornishmen. Half left for Doran and Oberyn and the others stayed for Elia.” Her voice cracks. “They're all gone. Brandon. Our father… so many people. I’ve made mistakes, Ned. I owe Elia’s children the truth. The whole truth.”

Ned turns his head and she thinks she hears a sad " _oh, Lyanna,_ _"_ being whispered into her hair. She feels so much shame that her voice cracks. “I’d rather they hear it from me. I’d rather them be angry at me than Rhaegar. There’s already so much distance between him and his children…”

Ned watches silently as she pulls away. “I can’t stop thinking about how Jon would react when he finds out. He's been accepting of everything because he thought it was all said and done. Can you imagine how he'll feel?” Lyanna swallows down a lump in her throat. “What happens if he hates me?” she whispers quietly. Hearing it said aloud makes the possibility seem so real. “I couldn’t bear it if Jon hated me.”

_I would surely die if he did_.

“Jon will understand. Just tell him the truth,” her brother says decisively, reaching over and squeezing her hands comfortingly. “He is a reasonable, fair boy, Lya. He knows that you love him very much.” Ned wipes a stray tear from her cheek, ever so gently. “He’ll forgive you. They will all forgive you.”

She nods jerkily, wiping at her face and surely soiling her gloves. He lifts her chin, looking at her dead seriously. “I trust you. Be brave and bold, Lya. They will listen to you because you care about them. You've made your mistakes but I have never met anybody who has atoned as much as you. I've never met someone more deserving of forgiveness than you.”

She takes in a weak, shuddering breath and nods.

“I had come to tell you that Robert’s family just arrived,” Ned tells her with a cough, clearly changing the subject. “But don’t worry, I’ll handle him for now. You just take care of whatever else you need to do.”

He kisses the crown of her head before taking his leave, pausing in the doorway to give her a comforting smile. She turns away as the door closes, wishing she could be as confident and sure as he is.

 

 

###### 2 IN THE AFTERNOON    Tyrion Lannister of the Westerlands

They couldn’t reach King’s Landing fast enough.

Father had absolutely refused to be in the same carriage as him and good riddance. Tyrion can’t imagine a more unbearable blight upon the journey than suffering the man’s presence. Jaime is good company; they'd talked for a while before he had pulled out a book, letting things fall into comfortable silence. Now though, Tyrion is itching to stretch his legs; he wants something to drink, he wants to  _do_  something. A man isn’t made for day in day out travel inside a stuffy carriage.

“Do you think Cersei's there yet?” he asks, shifting in his seat.

Jaime dog-ears his page and puts  _The Monk_ aside, shrugging nonchalantly. “Storm’s End is closer than Casterly Rock,” he replies idly.

“I thought you might have wanted to travel with them,” Tyrion says. He’s bored, and goading Jaime seems like such an attractive idea right now. “You sure do visit a lot. One could say you practically live there.”

He gives his brother a pointed look but Jaime doesn’t bite. “I like visiting the children. Our niece and nephews,” he says stiffly. “One could say that you should visit more often.”

“Cersei would bar the doors before I even arrive,” Tyrion points out, leaning back against the leather of the seats. “I’m not exactly her favorite…”

“You two provoke each other,” Jaime points out, smirking at him.

Tyrion smirks right back.

It's not like he's a bad brother to Cersei—you could even say he was a good one. Cersei thrives in conflict, it was her element. There might be nothing that makes her happier, besides her children, of course, than the feeling of righteous fury. She needs to point that anger out at someone, and Tyrion almost always obliges.

It's just too bad that Cersei’s temper was inherited by her oldest two.

There is something inherently... off-putting about Joffrey and Lyonel. (In the fact that they're both assholes.) Lyonel actually wears his bastardly temperament well, and Tyrion can't help but laugh at the irony: out of Cersei's four children, a bastard Lyonel isn’t. He _knows_ he's not wrong, and he might not be the only one. It’s an unsaid, badly-buried assumption that nobody in the family wants to address; out of sight out of mind, so to speak. Tyrion can only wonder how Robert would react if he heard these 'rumors'.

He watches Jaime with interest, oh this season will be an occasion indeed. Cersei, Robert, Rhaegar, and Lyanna all in one place. And with the Martells invited, too. The Targaryen man knows how to bring in a crowd, that’s for certain. Though perhaps he’s just exceptionally dense towards the all drama he creates. Tyrion just hopes that they serve enough wine for him to sufficiently be out of his wits when something inevitably goes down.

He begrudgingly settles in for the remainder of the journey, restless and bored out of his mind. They arrive when the sun is at its highest and the weather is bloody hot despite the light drizzling of rain. Cersei meets them by the doors, greeting Jaime and Father warmly while expertly ignoring him. The two older sons send him similar looks of disdain, but Myrcella, the angel, bounds towards him and kisses him on the cheek. Tommen follows as well, and Tyrion pulls both golden haired teenagers into a crushing hug. “Look at you two!” he exclaims, squeezing them tightly. “So much taller than when I last saw you!”

Myrcella giggles at him and pulls him over to the rest of the family, clearly not noticing how hard he’s dragging his feet. “We missed you, Uncle Tyrion. Come say hello!”

Cersei glares at him when he nears. “Brother,” she greets tonelessly, eyes raking over his disheveled, sweaty form with disgust. "You look well." 

He grins winsomely at her. “Same to you, sister. Where’s your charming husband? Off with the Starks again, I presume? I wonder what it is about their company that he prefers so much?” 

She shoots him a contemptuous look.

Jaime coughs warningly. “Brother, you said you wanted to stretch your legs?” 

“Well, that I did," Tyrion concedes, matching Cersei's look with his own and ruffling Tommen's hair before turning away. He makes straight for the hallway, looking for the door that leads down to the kitchens. If he has to deal with a clash of egos so early into the trip then he needs wine. A lot of it.

 

 

###### 3 IN THE AFTERNOON    Eddard Stark of Winterfell

Catelyn’s not happy about him disappearing all afternoon. He was supposed to help her entertain the Baratheons, but he’s been… distracted. _Gods, what a day_. Ned isn't proud about hiding the circumstances of Lyanna's marriage, but he will never harm her in any way. It was like a dark cloud, hanging over their heads these past seventeen years... heavy and constant. To have the truth—or parts of it—come out is almost a relief. Maybe then Lyanna can finally have her peace. 

“Ned, there you are!” Robert bellows. He grins roguishly as he pulls Ned close for a hug, eyes sweeping the halls. “Your sister not joining us?”

“Her family’s entertaining the Greyjoys,” he tells Robert, hugging his old friend warmly. Robert has barely changed since their youth, he's still tall, handsome, and fit. Evidently, being one of the most prolific and influential families in the Stormlands has been good to him. Cersei Lannister—and she’ll never be a Baratheon in Ned’s eyes—gives them small, hollow smiles as they sit down for tea.

Catelyn looks uncomfortable, glancing between them as she takes her seat between Rickon and Bran. She would much prefer to be with her brothers, but Robert had insisted on tea with “the whole pack”, laughing heartily at his own joke.

They spend the afternoon catching up on old times as their children and wives entertain each other. Robert must be feeling nostalgic today, spinning tales of their youthful adventures, his eyes bright and jovial. Ned's just starting to feel lighter when the topic inevitably turns to Jon's ball.

“All Cersei can talk about is this bloody ball. Women, all they do is talk and nag and gossip,” Robert was saying. “They’re so full of suggestions aren’t they?”

Robert roughly stabs his omelette, the runny tomato flesh oozing out like blood. His uncaring manner and loud voice has Cersei flinching. She stiffly ignores him, face hard and furious as she stirs her tea. Lyonel Baratheon was glaring at his father with such an intense look of hatred that Ned's instantly on guard.

“Sometimes they have good ideas, though,” Robert continues loudly, despite the tense atmosphere at the table. Ned can see Robb and Sansa glancing the man and his wife warily. “Cersei wants to marry my boy,” Robert gestures roughly with his fork, “to the Targaryen girl. Martell girl. Whatever her name is.”

“She doesn’t come with an estate, like that cousin of hers, but Cersei insists upon it. Won’t hear anything else. Last I talked to Targaryen,” and he practically spits the name, “he was amenable to the idea. You know what a marriage with one of his brats means, don't you Ned? I'm about to become bloody rich. _Richer_."

Robert looks so goddamned pleased that Ned just nods along, feeling very awkward. He admittedly doesn’t care too much about Rhaenys Martell’s prospects—that’s for her family to settle between themselves—but he hopes that any misdeeds Robert feels about Rhaegar wouldn’t be wrongfully inflicted upon the girl. But there's something in his old friend's eyes... a cold ambition. It's not right.

He looks away, feeling discontent in his stomach.  

Ned finds his eyes scanning the room; it's difficult to look at Robert and see this new, colder, harder man. As they sit, a few of the children's wolves trot about the room, quiet and curious. Shaggydog is sleeping under an open window, Ned can see the soft tugging of his fur from the winds. Bran's pup lies loyally at the boy's feet, chewing on some carrot slices. The boy keeps looking down and feeding her more. Ned really should remind them to keep their pets out of the dining areas.

Suddenly, Joffrey Baratheon jerks and spins in his chair. “Urgh, get it away from me!” He pushes away from the table and kicks out his leg, almost making contact with Nymeria’s little snout.

Arya sends out an alarmed shriek. “No! Don't hurt her!” she screams, diving under the table as if her life depended on it. The whole table rocks for a quick second and Sansa jerks back in shock as the sounds of distressed yipping rings out.

“Arya, get out from under there!” Catelyn demands, sending Robb after her.

Robert just guffaws as Cersei sends them all furiously unimpressed looks. She tells Myrcella and Tommen to put their feet up “less the rabid dogs bite them”, and Ned feels a flare of dislike towards her. Rickon, scared by the outburst, was gripping Catelyn’s dress so tightly his little hands were turning white.

Ned pushes back from the table as his son reemerges, disheveled. He has both Arya and Nymeria in his arms. “Take those wolves back to your rooms or to the pens,” he tells Robb firmly. "Now."

Robb nods quickly, scooping up the other pups and ushering Arya and Sansa out with him. He glances back towards his brothers before the door swings shut. The table is left so quiet that Ned can hear every footstep outside their room.

“That beast tried to take a piece out of my leg!” Joffrey hisses as Cersei examines his ankle. “It should be put down—it’s bloody rabid!”

“Oh, quiet!” Robert booms, silencing Joffrey with an unimpressed look. “If you didn’t get hurt than there’s no point making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“How could you say that? They’re feral creatures,” Cersei hisses. She pushes herself up from the table with a venomous glare. "I think we're done here." She ushers her children out of the room, not looking back once.

Robert settles back in, unperturbed by his wife’s contempt. Ned and Catelyn share a quick look before she picks Rickon up with one arm, also standing gracefully from the table. “Come, darling,” Catelyn says, reaching for Bran’s hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He waits until they're alone before turning to his old friend. “Your wife doesn’t seem especially fond of you,” Ned says evenly, dropping his fork with a _clink_. He doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.

Robert shrugs indifferently. “We’re not fond of each other. It is what it is.” He turns to Ned, deadly serious. “I’ll never love her and she’ll never love me. Couldn’t care less.”

_What about your children?_ Ned almost asks. _Don’t you see how this affects them?_

It's clear that Robert doesn't actually care and Ned finds that he's disappointed in his old friend. The man really has changed so much and somehow not at all. He had come to tea with the notions of unifying their two families—after all, Robert is like a brother to him. A match between their children would have been most advantageous... After what just happened though, that idea is thoroughly quashed. 

 

 

###### 4 IN THE AFTERNOON    Shella of the Targaryen household

The bright afternoon sun shines brightly as a small shopping party makes its way back to the Targaryen estate. 

“Must be some feast,” Tyta, a young maid, says. She surveys their little shopping group. Serving girls and boys carry heavy wicker baskets filled with fresh fruit, vegetables, and seeds. Two carriages roll slowly behind them, carrying the meats, fish, and flours. “I saw a few more families arriving as we were leaving. This better be enough food.”

Shella turns and looks back at the little progression. The mistress of the house was incredibly specific with what she wanted. Fresh fish for her step-sister’s family, exotic and expensive spices for the Dornish, succulent red meats for the northerners... the list goes on and on. Jealously, Shella realizes that she will never be able to spend such an extravagant amount of money for something as trivial as a ball.

“Did you hear about what happened to the Rosbys?” one of the serving girls asks the bored group. A couple of people pipe up, turning to each other excitedly. It's a bit of a stupid question, really. Everybody knows what happened at the Rosby estate. Invaded by wights, and during an evening card party, no less. Shella quietly scoffs; if they were being careless, then it’s their own damned fault. She might not like the Targaryens but at least they’re prudent with security.

“I heard that somebody turned during a card game,” a young boy answers, voice hushed and fervent. “There were no survivors.”

“Whatever happened,” Shella cuts in, voice carrying. “Don’t talk about it in the mansion. It'll upset the guests.”

Tyta rolls her eyes. “Who gives a fuck about the guests. I heard that the officials have been sweeping the lands,” she whispers under her breath. “And apparently the back doors and cellars were broken into—half the estate is still unaccounted for.” She shivers, eyes darting around furtively. “The Rosby home isn’t actually far, is it?”

Shella rolls her shoulders, shifting the purchases in her arms. “It’s unfortunate but it happens, Tyta. They were probably careless—you can’t be negligent just because you’re rich.”

Tyta sends her a heated look. “I had friends working there you know, they were good people. Don’t be so blasé about this.”

Shella rounds on her. “I’m trying to survive out here, okay? The less I think about… _that_ , the easier I sleep at night.” She hefts the baskets up again. “I’m sorry about your friends, but don't deny that you aren’t relieved it’s them and not us.”

They can finally see the Targaryen estate ahead. Branches sway in the winds, recent rainfall making the ground slippery and mushy. Her little slippers sink into the dirt with every step, muddy specks splattering up the grey of her gown. Tyta looks away from her, swallowing hard. “We should take the back gates,” she says stiffly. “There’s too many guests by the front.”

She storms off and Shella watches her go. It hurts a little, but she's not here to make friends—she's here to make enough money to sail away from this goddamned continent, and that's all that matters. Or at least it's what she tells herself at night, when the other servants and maids split off in their little friendship groups, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She frowns when they slow to a stop; there happens to be a commotion by the front of the progression. Some people have dropped their hefty baskets, moving forward in curiosity. She winces at their carelessness; if the produce gets dirty then that’s more time they'll have to spend cleaning. “What’s wrong?” she asks a young serving boy. He shrugs at her, gesturing to the gate.

“It’s freezing!”

Now that she’s paying attention, Shella can see that a few of the serving boys, the ones that are permitted to carry weapons, have their pistols in hand. There’s a ripple of whispers from behind her; a few hushed voices and a lot of nervous shifting. She pushes forwards and touches the gate. It’s freezing to the touch, so cold that her fingertips tingle when she removes them. Even the winds seem chillier, but that just might be from the setting sun. There’s a sense of growing unease in the group, a shifty fearfulness. Even the pistol-wielders are starting to look antsy.

_Goodness, can these people be more incompetent?_

“Look around us,” Shella says in a loud and commanding voice. “There’s no ice. There’s no sleet. It’s just the weather, people.” She moves to gather the attention of the rest of the group. “You know that means there’s no wights, so stop freaking out. Get yourselves inside, now. We’re late enough for dinner preparations as it is. _Go_.”

She unhooks the freezing but otherwise untouched lock with numb fingers and ushers everybody through, carriages rolling in slowly behind them. Some of the servants nod approvingly at her command, though others look less than pleased at her nerve and ambition. She ignores them.

Shella waits until everybody is inside before trying to close the gates. It takes a while to get the padlock slotted in properly, the metal is still cold and unyielding and her numb fingers are so stiff they're turning purple. She pushes the lock in roughly, yanking the bars down and shaking the gate harshly to see if it's locked properly. Satisfied, she hauls up her baskets and makes her way to the back kitchens, watching as the gardeners pack up for the day. She doesn't look back.

The metal of the lock, weakened by her severe ministrations and frozen through despite the lack of frost and sleet, cracks and splinters in its holdfast. Bits of metal drop off and sink into the wet mud. The sound of the gate swinging slightly is drowned out by the howling wind and rustling branches.

 

 

###### 5 IN THE AFTERNOON    Rhaenys Martell of Sunspear

Rhaenys stares out the window of the guest room she shares with Arianne. The sun is setting now, swathing the sky in an array of oranges and purples. She idly traces a little sun-spear in the mist of the window. The estate was bustling with so much life today that she couldn't even go one step without bumping into somebody. Rhaenys had been cornered by no less than six noblemen after breakfast, each one was laughably obvious about their intents. Clearly, the Targaryen bloodline is more esteemed than she had thought.

“Rhaenys, are you still listening to me?” Arthur’s voice cuts in.

She turns away from the window, taking in her uncle’s concerned violet eyes. There’s a weariness in the way he holds himself, and she feels an irrational surge of irritation. Towards him, for hassling her. Towards Rhaegar, for being Rhaegar. (Towards herself, because she always seems to be worrying somebody.) 

“Sorry, Uncle,” Rhaenys says sincerely, plopping down onto her bed. “I was listening, really.”

Arthur leans over, wrapping an arm around her comfortingly, and she finds herself twisting into his shoulder as if she were a child again. “Why is he such an asshole?” she whispers.

Her uncle chuckles and shrugs, pulling away slightly to give her a serious but warm smile. “You don't need to worry about your father. He won't hurt you or Aegon in any way,” Arthur assures her.

Rhaenys gives him a beseeching look. “And you believed him?”

He stews in thought for a moment but says with perfect honesty: “I don’t think Rhaegar would lie.”

She pulls away and stares at him. “What? Have you forgotten he’s done?”

“Rhaenys I will never forget what he’s done,” Arthur explains, unsurprisingly patient. “I have known your father for a very long time. He avoids talking to people but he's always been honest. An honest fool, that's who your father is." He fixes a lock of her hair. "If you want to know something, you only need ask... but sometimes it's easier to just... turn the other way. Because you know you won't like the answers."

He’s trails off, eyes clouded over in deep thought. Rhaenys shifts uncomfortably, she's pretty sure she knows what he's thinking about. Arthur frowns and turns back to her, smile just shy of strained. “But enough of that. He knows where he stands, so you just focus on yourself, okay?” Arthur says. He flicks her chin playfully as if she were still a toddler and Rhaenys laughs at the absurdity of it. He holds her face in his hands, smiling affectionately. “No matter how you want to deal with this annulment news, we will all support you.”

“But I don't even know what I want to do, Uncle...” Rhaenys confesses.

“Hey, look at me. You and Aegon are grown now. Fully capable of making your own decisions,” he gives her shoulders a comforting squeeze. "You two just need to believe in yourselves."

“Then what happens if all I want to do is hurt him?” Rhaenys asks, pulling away. “What if I want to punish him for what he did?”

_What if I want to make him suffer?_  she doesn’t say. Her uncle just waits patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

“Am I disillusioned? Am I a bad person if I want him to pay?” she whispers to him. “I want to, so badly. But then I remember Aegon and Jon and it isn't fair. Does he get to get away with it because it might hurt them?” Rhaenys twists her hands. "And what about Lady Lyanna? She's not to blame but she's not... innocent. I think. Gods, I don't even know."

Arthur runs his hands up her arms and tells her to control her breathing, and she tries, she tries. It feels like she’s _always_ trying. Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut.

“Decisions like that,” he says slowly, carefully. “Are the worst ones you need to make. Nothing's ever clear cut. But know this, you don't have to make it on your own." There's a comforting squeeze around her shoulders. “Talk to your uncles. Talk to your brother. Remember, you're not alone. No matter what you choose to do, I'll support you, just be certain that it's what you really want. Don't do something that you might regret later.”

Rhaenys nods stiffly, suddenly feeling out of her depth.  “They’re going to lose their minds. Uncle Oberyn’s going to do something rash. And I don’t even want to know how Uncle Doran will react.”

Arthur leans over and kisses the top of her head, mussing her waves. “They might surprise you.” He stands, stretching out and giving her a reassuring smile. “Now I’ve got to go find my brother and sister, and you need to get your chin up, sunray." 

“Thanks for the advice, Uncle Arthur,” she says quietly, nodding at him. “I will.”

She waits until he leaves to plop back onto the bed, flinging a pillow over her face and swearing loudly. _Gods, where to begin?_

 

 

###### 6 IN THE EVENING    Brandon Tallhart of Torrhen's Square

Brandon had always been interested in scholarly pursuits. Instead of focusing on running the property as Benfred does, he set his eyes on higher education; reading and writing theses, burning away the midnight oil in libraries and museums. 

A graduating scholar in his own rights, Brandon alternates his time between researching the wight phenomenon and coordinating with other scholars and physicians. Sometimes, if there's something really important, he'll even reach out to people outside the north. It isn’t often that different provinces contact each other; there’s too much bad blood for that. The northerner in him says that it's a good thing—southerners bring only trouble, just ask anybody—but the scholar in him heartily disagrees. What's the whole point of individually fighting a singular enemy when you could work together? He had always wondered that. There's only so much that they can achieve on their own. That being said though, there are a few letters from the Iron Isles, Highgarden, Dorne, and Horn Hill he hasn’t gotten around to opening yet.

The heavy and slightly dusty tome in front of him, lit by the flickering candlelight and sinking sun, makes him feel lethargic and tired. Stiff and ink stained fingers deftly flick through yellowing pages, copying down notes and ideas. ' _Parasitical and evolutionary adaptation of the human biological systems..._ _The corpse as a foundation for parasitical advancements..._ _Evolution of parasitically-spread diseases and afflictions...The influenza epidemic and how these symptomatic processes could reflect evolutionary patterns of diseases_ '. The pages all seem to blend together. Brandon rubs his eyes tiredly. Not for the first time does he regret going into higher education; there’s only so many times one can read these prehistoric books before they go mad. 

Brandon scans through the article half-heartedly before closing the tome tiredly. Parasites are interesting and all, but they aren’t his field of study. He wants to know if climates or terrain influence wight evolution and adaption. How is it that Dorne, the warmest province in Westeros, has on average the same number of wight sightings as the north? If he can find out the differences in their physiology, their Darwinist evolution to different ecological systems, then maybe he can make a breakthrough in this wight phenomenon. 

Brandon drums his fingers against the wood of the table, bored. He's reached a block in concentration and his thesis and research is going nowhere fast. Perhaps he does need to explore new avenues. His eyes keep drifting back to the first book; there’s something about parasitical evolution that pulls at his curiosity.

Maybe he’ll check the book out for some light reading.

 

###### 7 IN THE EVENING    Cersei Baratheon of Storm's End

Cersei brushes her hair until it’s shiny and perfect, flowing liquid gold practically melts between her fingertips and she smiles in satisfaction.  She's wearing her blood-red gown for dinner later, the one that's trimmed with soft yellow lace. Her reflection in the mirror looks downright exquisite… Robert may even keep his eyes off Lyanna Stark tonight. Her hands clench on the brush violently. How is it that Lyanna Stark still manages to bewitch Robert so? The Stark girl should have taken Robert and Cersei should have had Rhaegar. She can't help but close her eyes wistfully. Even after all these years, Rhaegar had looked as ageless and handsome as ever. His flowing silver hair, the sparkle in his indigo eyes, his lithe build... Rhaegar is everything Robert isn’t—he’s exactly what Jaime can’t give her, no matter how much her brother tries.

Though perhaps Jaime might visit her chambers later. She knows he likes her in red.

She stares out the window, looking at an unmatched view of the great fields and cliffs beyond. Sparkling effervescent blues of the Blackwater Bay catch the moonlight wonderfully in the distance. This estate is beautiful; warmer and more colorful than the mansion at Storm’s End will ever be. She yearns for it to be hers. The only thing ruining the setting is the sound of those feral Stark dogs, howling and barking downstairs. She grinds her teeth in frustration. They should just put those pests down, honestly.

The door slides open without a knock. Joffrey strides straight in, throwing himself on a chaise, utterly unimpressed with the day so far. Lyonel follows behind, closing the swinging door with a flick of his hand. Joffrey scowls at her; he has been in a temper since lunch with the Starks, getting broodier and broodier by the hour. Cersei feels a current of anger run through her, Robert and his bloody fondness of these northerners—it was as if she and the children didn’t exist! It was lucky that wolf didn't break skin, or she doesn't know what she would have done in response. Something damaging, most probably.

Nodody hurts her children.

“Mother, why am I here?” Joffrey demands. “I had things I wanted to do.”

“I need you two to be on your utmost perfect behavior tonight,” she says, idly pinching at her cheeks for the pinkness. “We're having dinner with some important people and I don't want any more scenes. Remember what I taught you.”

“That wasn’t my faul—”

“—if you want someone to like you, don’t go around kicking their pets,” she continues, giving Joffrey a hard stare. Lyonel scoffs in the background. “Until you get you want, you _have_ to play nice.”

She turns to her other son, gesturing for him to come closer. “I didn’t push your father so hard for that Martell girl’s hand, Lyonel, for you to not sway her favor.” She puts both her hands on his shoulders and tightens them pointedly. “Charm her, make her think that you'll give her everything in the world and more.”

Lyonel shifts uncomfortably. “I haven’t even met her yet, she’s nowhere to be found. What if she’s horrifically ugly?” He crosses his arms with a frown. “I hear she looks like her mother. If her mother wasn’t unseemly then the Duke wouldn’t have left her.”

He says it so casually that Cersei clenches her hands tighter on his shoulders. She’s not fond of Elia Martell, it’s true. But asides from marrying Rhaegar… the woman hadn't actually dealt her any personal slights. Martell is already dead and forgotten, there's no need for further insult. “She comes with the largest dowry, remember?” Cersei reminds him instead. “If you marry her, then everything that's hers will be yours. The children, the money, everything. That, my dearest, is all that matters.”

She surveys her sons, watching as they take in her words. “You and your siblings will have it all,” she says quietly but surely. “The Targaryen fortune—their connections, their influences, their _power_ over Westeros. It's why this marriage is so important, Lyonel. If Myrcella were any older I'll be pushing her towards the Targaryen boys, but she isn't. It's up to you.”

“They’re not even Targaryens,” Joffrey points out, scoffing in disdain. “They don’t have his name and they don’t even live here.”

“They can call themselves Martells all they want but we know better. They're Targaryen born,” Cersei says primly, acidly. "They're dragons and there's no denying it."

“It's just like how you answer to Lannister,” Lyonel says thoughtfully. "You're Lannister born."

“Precisely. Because it’s the name that matters,” she says. “I will always be a lion, I won’t bend to Robert.”

“You want our family to be the apex of society?” she asks her son, smoothing down his dark flyaways, watching as his bright blues flash ambitiously. “Convince that girl to marry you. Joffrey can have Daenerys, Sansa, or even Margaery, it doesn’t matter. After all is said and done, you and your siblings will never worry for anything,” Cersei says, smiling brightly at him.

"It will all be worth it, I promise."

 

 

###### 8 IN THE EVENING    Aegon Martell of Sunspear

They’re having dinner with the Baratheons tonight and the atmosphere is... awkward, to say the least. People are tense with one another; nobody seems to have an appetite and everybody seems so _suspicious_ of each other. Aegon can’t quite place his finger on it, but it definitely has something to do with Lord Robert and Lady Cersei being clearly in love with other people. (He almost pities them for their lack of subtlety. Almost.) When Aegon first saw Lady Cersei raking her eyes amorously over Father’s figure, he had choked up the vegetable soup for first course. Messy and embarrassing, he's forever thankful that only Trystane and Jon saw it. The situation is so hilariously disturbing that it leaves him dumbfounded.

_More dumbfounded_ , that is. This whole trip is throwing him in for a loop.

Earlier, when Rhaenys and Lord Arthur wanted to talk in private and Aegon was booted from her room (quite literally, he might add), he had taken to wandering the estate in search of their Father. Aegon's a pretty patient person himself, but three days of seeing his sister _that_ unhappy was grating on him. Not being trusted enough to be in the room with them? That's the straw that broke the camel's back. He had wanted to corner Father and shake him:  _What did you say to her? Did you hurt her? Why is it you always seem to screw up somehow?_ Father was more illusive then Aegon had given him credit for though, and he had given up after a few hours. He'll just have to keep waiting, unfortunately. Rhaenys always tells him what the problem is, she just needs the time. He had then gone around, introducing and integrating himself with the other nobles. No point in skulking about, after all. Theon Greyjoy’s hustling sister had won three games of Cribbage that afternoon, taking most of his money and pride. Aegon was more than a little impressed, he was almost in love. He was in the middle of losing another rematch when his sister strode smoothly into the den, clear-eyed and present. 

Later, after they had found a quiet room to themselves, she had told him everything. Rhaenys stood there, watching for his reaction with concerned and nervous eyes. She shouldn't have worried so much because he didn't exactly react—he didn't know how to. He was still thinking hard about the situation by the time dinner rolled around. It's lucky that the Daynes and his uncles are taking private supper in their rooms. Uncle Oberyn must be livid up there, and it'll take more than just his aunts to calm the man down. (Though Aegon's a realist. If Oberyn really did want to murder Father, absolutely nobody would be able to stand in his way, not even the greatest knight alive.)

Aegon can’t wrap his mind around it, the information not clicking together as smoothly as it should. This news opens up a lot of questions he wants answers to. Rhaenys is quite set in her judgement: she knows what she needs to know, apparently. She's hard to sway once her mind has been made. Aegon, though... he can't hate Father, not yet. He had put the man on a pedestal, hoping that one day they could be a happy, albeit incredibly dysfunctional family. Despite knowing everything he had ever done, Aegon had still cared about him... Now though, he's not too sure. Even if he doesn't have that kind of emotional connection to their Mother, she's _still_ his Mother. This was another slight on top of an already precariously-leaning mountain of insults on her name.

By the time dessert was being served, Aegon knows exactly what he needs to do. He can't talk to Father because, well, how can he? He can't even look at the man right now. If Aegon wants answers, he'll have to ask somebody else.

Rhaenys and Jon shoot him questioning glances as he suddenly stands to leave, and he winces at his clumsiness. He was hoping to be subtle, not wanting to draw attention to himself. From across the table, Lady Lyanna was  also standing up to leave, probably hoping to get away from Robert Baratheon's leering eyes. “I’ll find you guys later,” he tells them, stumbling out of his chair in his haste to follow her. Jon calls out questioningly but Aegon doesn't hear what he said, door already swinging closed behind him.

“Lady Lyanna!” Aegon calls, seeing her take to the stairs.

She turns and gives him a confused look, eyes sweeping the halls. “Aegon, something wrong?”

“I wanted to ask you some questions,” he says, leaning against the banister. “Can we please talk in private?”

She looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, something passing in her eyes before she gestures him into an empty parlor room. "What is it that you wanted to talk about?"

“I wanted you to clarify something that Rhaenys told me,” Aegon begins, pacing nervously. Lyanna doesn't look surprised, she just closes the door and nods. “Is it true then, the annulment?”

He drums his fingers on his coat impatiently, watching as she processes the question. 

“Yes. It's true. I really loved your father… and he loved me.” Lyanna turns to fully face him, eyes serious and searching. “We paid little thoughts to the consequences of our actions. I confess, Aegon,” she swallows hard, hands clenched in the folds of her evening dress. “I confess we were selfish. We wanted to grab the opportunity to be together and, well, the annulment was a tempting idea. A very tempting idea.”

He just waits for her to continue; her eyes have drifted off, clearly chasing a memory. Lyanna chokes out a laugh, shaking her head. “And then my father, my brother… your mother...  all these people passed away and the annulment became the least of our concerns.”

She looks at him, blue-grey eyes darkened with shame. He just holds her gaze for a while, silence settling uncomfortably around them. Aegon wants to say something, but he doesn't want to be insensitive about it, christ. He's still choosing his words when Lyanna breaks the eye contact. He thinks he hears her whispering something. A name, _Brandon_. “We were so worried about you three. Everybody was furious, and rightly so. It was a mess. Then there were the trials, the court appearances… We decided it was best if we never mentioned it again. We buried it.”

He clears his throat, scuffing his shoes against the carpet almost childishly. “Were you ever going to tell us? If Father didn’t let it slip, would you have ever told us?”

Lyanna sighs, a guilty fold to her shoulders. “I’m honestly not sure. I think... yes, eventually.”

There's really only one thing left he needs to know. Aegon clenches his hands before stuffing them in his coat pockets awkwardly, trying to gather his confidence. _Please, please, please, let this next answer be what I need it to be._

“There was one other thing I needed to ask you,” Aegon starts, voice not wavering despite the thudding in his chest. “And I'm begging you not to lie to me, Lady Lyanna. When you got married… Was it before or after my mother died?”

There's dead silence. She blinks at him. Slowly at first, then more quickly as a glisten starts to form in her eyes. She hasn’t moved an inch. “We made mistakes, Aegon.”

It was barely a whisper.

Something ice-cold washes over him. That changes things— _changes everything_. He doesn’t know what to think, he doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know what to _say_. He knows he just needs to leave. Lyanna doesn’t move as he pushes his way to the door, pulling it open harshly only to be met with Jon’s frozen face. His brother has his hand raised, as if to knock. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and stricken. Jon is rapidly paling, expression shocked. Aegon can only wonder how awful he looks.

“Jon, dear?” Lyanna calls worriedly. She immediately jolts into action, reaching past Aegon to her son. “How much of that did you hear?”

Jon just stands there as his mother grips his arm, still looking Aegon in the eyes. He visibly shakes himself back into attention before zoning in on his mother. “I heard enough,” his brother says in a cold, hard tone. “Is it true, then?”

“Jon—” Lyanna starts, but his brother steps back, shaking her hand off.

“I had thought…” Jon swallows hard before spinning taking to the stairs two at a time.

Aegon slowly, painstakingly turns back to Lyanna. She’s still frozen with her hand grasping thin air. The woman looks so tired, weathered and worn despite her youth. He has never seen her like this before. “Give him some space, Aegon,” she says quietly. “Let him sleep on it, please… Rhaegar and I… we will explain it all tomorrow.”

She finally tears her eyes away from the empty hall, turning to look at him. She's practically folding in on herself, looking like she's holding all the guilt in the world on her shoulders. _And you are, aren't you?_ Aegon doesn't say. _You're guilty, so guilty_.

He gives her a jerky nod. He should comfort her, perhaps, but he he's not sure if his touch will be welcome. “Get some rest, Lady Lyanna,” Aegon blurts out, not unkindly. He backs out of the room and away from her. “I'll, umm, go find Rhaenys.”

Aegon spins away from her, not looking back. He takes the stairs three at the time but finds that he's still not moving fast enough. When he reaches the upper floor, Jon is long gone. 

 

 

###### 9 IN THE EVENING    Robb Stark of Winterfell

Robb splays himself out on his parent’s large four-poster, tired and with a budding headache. His parents are out for late supper and the boys have already been settled into bed. He’s waiting for Theon, still catching up with his family, before heading off to sleep himself. The wolves are still howling and barking insistently by the foot of the bed, only adding to the cacophony of the room. It’s disconcerting, usually the pups are quite docile. Grey Wind lies next to him, tongue poking out, trembling fretfully. He rubs the pup’s ears as Arya and Sansa bicker in the background.

“You were going to let him hurt Nymeria!” his sister screeches, loud enough to be heard over the wolves’ insistent howling. “You only care about yourself; the pretty dresses and the _stupid boys_!”

Sansa opens her mouth to retort, probably something scathing and petty.

“Enough,” Robb chastises lazily them from the bed. “We've been through this already. Arya, he didn’t kick Nymeria because Father stopped him. Sansa, if somebody was going to hurt Lady you would have felt the same way. Now please, please be quiet. Half the household is probably asleep by now.”

_Please take mercy on your poor brother_ , he doesn't say. _You two age me so_. Alas, showing any weakness like that to his siblings will only open him up to merciless mockery.

Sansa sends Arya a glare but turns away, checking on Lady. The poor thing’s yowls must be breaking Sansa’s heart. Arya huffs and turns away too, jumping onto the bed next to him, scowling at the ceiling as if it personally wronged her. The door opens with a creak and Mother comes in, Bran and Rickon’s mournfully screeching pups held securely in her arms. “What has gotten into them?” Mother asks, frowning. “It’s giving me a headache.”

They just squirm and howl louder in response. Cute little devils.

“I’ll put them away before they wake the estate,” Robb concedes, scooping Grey Wind from the bed. Mother sends him a thankful smile, tiredly pulling her hair out from its coif. “Get some rest, Mother.”

“You three should be in bed,” she chides gently, watching as they collect the pups. “It’s late. Why are you here anyway?”

Robb grins at her. “I’m too old for a bedtime, Ma. And to answer your questions: Theon and Asha are catching up in our room, and these two,” he ruffles Arya’s hair, “I’m just mediating. Making sure they don't break any of Aunt Lyanna's things.”

"You're a terrible mediator, you always side with Arya," Sansa huffs, rolling her eyes at him. She kisses Mother on the cheek before they leave, hip-checking Arya out the room. 

“Are you sure we have to lock them up?” Arya starts, pouting up at him. “Maybe they’re just hungry? Or tired? Are they scared of the rain?”

“It’s not raining indoors, stupid,” Sansa says, and Robb pushes himself bodily between them, sighing to himself. 

“Hey, enough you two!” he warns, shifting Grey Wind and Shaggydog in his arms as their howls get dangerously close to his ears. “We’re not at home, so you’ve got to behave yourselves!”

Arya mumbles something under her breath and he generously pretends he can’t hear her vulgar language. Language that Robb’s certain can be traced back to him and Theon anyways. “They’re only like this because perfect, _delicate_ Joffrey’s nearby,” Arya mutters. She shoots Sansa a dark look.

“If you had bothered to train her at all, then she wouldn’t have made such a scene during lunch! Lady Cersei probably hates us!” Sansa hisses back. “It’s not Joffrey’s fault, it’s yours!”

“Okay, okay, settle down please,” he says, giving both of them pointed stares. “Before you wake the whole estate.”

He does wait until Sansa looks away to wink at Arya. “He is a bit delicate isn’t he?” Robb whispers conspiratorially.

Arya nods seriously. "A big, delicate jerk!"

"Right, and just because Joffrey's a jerk doesn't mean you have to be one, too," he reminds her gently. "Stop picking on your sister, please."

She frowns at him but nods, probably too tired to push her point. They make it all the way to the ground floor before he can hear the sound of a door slamming open. _Please don't be Aunt Lysa, please don't be Robin_ , Robb prays. _I'm too tired to deal with their nonsense_. It's almost a relief to see Loras Tyrell's head over the banister.

“What’s the matter down there?” the young lord calls. “They’re being awfully troublesome, you know.”

“We’re penning them, Lord Loras,” Robb replies, shifting the pups. “Apologies for disrupting your sleep.”

Loras skips down the stairs towards them. “Nonsense,” he says, gesturing to Sansa. She gives him Summer without a fuss. “It’s too early for sleep and I’m bored out of my bloody mind. I’ll come with you.” He makes a show of bowing to the girls. “Miladies.”

Sansa blushes prettily and Robb finds himself sighing. If she's going to have a crush on a Tyrell, couldn't she have chosen the quieter, less annoying brother? Willas, perhaps?  

Loras grabs a lamp from the wall and leads to the front doors rocking Summer gently in his arms. As soon as the doors open they're splattered with rain. It’s bloody cold, even to his northern sensibilities. Robb pulls an umbrella from the stand and pulls Arya towards him. Loras and Sansa share another, with his sister sneaking shy glances towards the man.

“It’s quieter than usual,” Sansa remarks, taking in the front grounds.

“Well, most of the servants and guards have gone to bed, Lady Sansa,” Loras says as they make their way to the outdoor pens. “With these gates there’s no need for there to be around-the-clock guards.”

Loras and Sansa talk amongst themselves, she asks about news from Highgarden and he inquires about Winterfell. _At least he's not leering at her_ , Robb concedes in Loras' point, watching the two walk by. He might be annoyingly outspoken, but he's still a gentleman. Robb turns to his youngest sister, huddling close to him for warmth. Arya is quiet, holding Nymeria up high so she can rest her little face in the pup’s fur. A more miserable child has surely never been seen.

“You know… I sure hope nobody forgets to lock the gate, _rarr_!” he suddenly jumps in front of Arya, watching as the mud flings under his boots. His sister freezes in shock before laughing delightedly. Their clothes are soiled with mud and dirt now, and Mother will surely have his head in the morning but it’s worth it to see Arya happy again. She’s been in such a lousy state after tea with the Baratheons, and now that they have to pen the pups…

“Robb, that’s not funny!” she whines, headbutting him fiercely in the hip. Even Sansa grins at their antics, frustrations with Arya seemingly forgotten.

“You mustn’t worry, Lady Arya,” Loras says confidently. “We’re all trained men here—even some of the ladies are trained in combat as well.”

“Really?” Arya asks, her little face lighting up. "Like who?"

“Arya entertains the idea of running around with the hunters and knights,” Sansa explains to Loras. “Mother isn’t too keen on it. She wants us girls to focus on our education.”

Loras nods at them. “That’s reasonable. Grandmother won’t let Margy train either, but my sister is thinking about studying medicine or politics,” he says, voice laced with no small amount of pride. “There are always other ways to contribute to the community.”

Sansa hums thoughtfully, though Arya doesn't seem to keen about it. "Urgh, politics," she mutters to a howling Nymeria. "That's boring."

It isn't long before they reach the pens, and Robb fumbles with the ice-cold latch. The wooden door gives with a loud creak and dust plumes fill the air. Loras goes around lighting the wall sconces as Sansa and Arya bring the yowling pups inside, filling the bowls with well water as they go. Grey Wind nips at his bootlaces when Robb turns to say goodbye, yowling so woefully and twitching so fretfully that Robb doesn’t want to leave him. 

“Maybe they’re just missing their mother,” Sansa tells Arya, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Arya chews her lips, eyes darting back between them and the pens nervously. “You sure?” she asks them.

“Of course,” Robb tells her, kneeling on the grass. He winces at the mushy water soaking his slacks. “We'll check on them first thing in the morning, 'kay?”

Arya frowns at them but eventually concedes. Her nose is starting to redden from the wind so he ushers them quickly back to the estate. Best get them inside before anybody catches something. They don't even make it halfway before Loras pauses, lantern swinging in his hand. “That was weird,” he mutters, frowning in the distance.

“What is?”

“I thought I saw something in the shadows,” Loras points towards the back of the estate. “But it’s just the servants. There, by the well.”

He points to something in the distance. Robb strains to look, but with their singular lamp it’s fairly difficult. He does see someone opening the back door of the estate, swathing the dark yard with an orange glow before the light is snuffed again.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Robb agrees. “It’s probably nothing.”

They push the girls inside and close the front doors, soundly blocking out the sound of the wind and rain. He tries not to think about Grey Wind’s howls and barks as they climb the stairs. The poor wolves must not be used to constant the rain.

###### 10 IN THE EVENING    Clydas of the Targaryen household

The bustling in the kitchen is a familiar sound to Clydas, he listens with half an ear to the conversations while going about and finishing tonight's duties. Supper was served for the masters of the house and their guests, everybody was settling in their rooms and he is eager to be done as well. Today has been especially hectic, what with the new arrivals and multiple gatherings happening all at once.

“Just for one time,” Missus Roone, the housekeeper, mutters. “I should like for all the guests to dine together, hmm? It would save us a lot of trouble.”

Clydas hums agreeably as he moves by. Sharna, a young serving girl and his close friend, grins as he passes, chewing on her dinner roll. She mixes it with her lukewarm meat stew and winks at him. “Clydas!” she calls. “How was the supper service?”

A few people chuckle quietly around them. He had the unenviable job of serving the Targaryen-Martell-Baratheon supper group tonight. Everyone's heard of the infamous Oberyn Martell and they've been pestering him for gossip all night. What were they expecting, a knife fight in the dining room? Honestly. “Nothing quite so interesting,” he says, dropping his pile of dishes. The back door to the kitchens swings and closes violently. “Half didn't even bother to turn up, you should have seen all the wasted food. _Rich people_."

They scoff at him as he drops down to the tables, eager to eat and rest. He grabs some bread and stew, settling in beside Sharna. Cold winds blow in from the low-lit hallway behind them and Roland, a footman, frowns. “Why is that door open?” he asks, dropping his cheese back into the bowl. “I swear, if it’s those darn dogs again…”

Clydas watches him leave, sipping his stew contently. Blane, an assistant gardener, begins pouring out some wine they filched from upstairs. He distracts them with talks about the newcomers and their weird, fanciful habits. They’re giggling about Lady Cersei’s apparent lust for the master of the household when Clydas notices that Roland hasn’t returned yet. He's about to say something when the door to the upper levels swings open. Returning house and scullery maids come pouring through, arms laden with dirty linens, dishes, and leftover food. Mister Foote, the butler, closes the door with a resounding _thud_ , pulling down the bar after them. 

Guess it means the lower servants are done for tonight then.

“How was it, sir?” a young cook asks, ladling some stew into a bowl for him. “Are we done for the night?”

The butler nods tiredly at them, taking the bowl with a murmur of thanks. “You can retire tonight once all of your duties are completed,” he tells them in a commanding voice. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

There's a few grumbles of discontent at that.  _Soiree season_ , what a farce. _A waste of food and a waste of energy_ , they mutter. The group falls into a familiar routine, finishing their chores and their dinner. They're content, sitting together at the table like a family of their own, when another cold sweep of wind comes through. Some mugs tip over, spilling wine all over the table. Clydas glances back towards the low-lit hallway. He can hear the backdoor slamming repeatedly against its frame. “Roland?” Clydas calls back, twisting in his seat. “Are you there?”

He sighs and pulls out of his chair. “I’m going to see if he needs help.” He grabs a large slice of bread before heading off. Gods knows that when he comes back the food will probably be all gone.

The hallway, which leads to the scullery rooms and pantries, is cold and windy. Candlelight from wall sconces flicker valiantly against the wind, giving the hallway an eerie flutter of light. Chatter and laughter from tired estate staff still sound in the background, but Clydas is distracted by the back door. It’s swinging insistently against the frame, light from the kitchens flowing out into the otherwise dark yards. The wind must have battered it hard because there’s splintered wood on the ground.

He grabs a lamp from the scullery room, lighting it with some oil and curiously looks around for his friend.

“Roland?” he calls. “Oi, come inside or I’m going to lock you out!”

_I swear if this is another one of the gardener’s pranks again_ …

He makes to close the door before suddenly slipping and smashing the oil lamp against cold stone. “The hell?” he exclaims, cradling his arm.

“Clydas?” Missus Roone calls. “Are you okay?”

The flickering of the flames from the smashed lamp almost blind him for a moment, but he sees the kindly housekeeper from around the hallway. “Yeah, I’m fine!” he calls back, wincing at the obvious sprain in his arm. He shifts against the cold stone. “I just slipped and fell on some…”

Clydas blinks, a cold fear freezing him on the spot. Blood. Half frozen over. The red flickers ominously in against the flames. He turns to shout something, _anything_ , to Roone, but she’s staring, face stricken, at something beyond him. A cold and spindly thing grabs his ankle from where he’s still laying on the ground, it yanks. Hard. Ceramic smashes against stone as she calls out. The stone hall spins wildly for a moment before he’s bought back by the sounds of jaws snapping.

“Ohmygod!” he thinks he hears someone scream over the sound of the back door being violently ripped from the frame.

Clydas thinks he recognizes the Rosby family insignia on the coat of the closest wight before something tears through his arm and the world fades to black.

 

###### 1 HOUR UNTIL MIDNIGHT    Ygritte of the North

In the north, much further than Winterfell and beyond, a battle was raging. Large fires are spreading and there’s a rushing sound of screaming and guttural groaning that rips through the air. Ygritte slips on some bloodied, mushy snow as she sprints towards camp, freezing dread coursing through her body. Her breath comes out in puffs of fog and her legs are burning with spent energy but she can’t stop.

_This can’t be happening! Please, no!_

Blackened, ashy snow drifts down slowly as she collapses against a snowy cliff, flattening herself against the cold to peer over the edges. Her home is burning; the people who she grew up with, her friends if she were being generous, were screaming and crying. Sounds of swords clacking, pistols shooting, and even the whizzing sound of arrows can be heard if one can distinguish all the noise apart.

There are undead everywhere.

“Shit, for fucksakes!” Ygritte swears, grabbing a small dagger from her boot and clambering down a hill. She had left her sword _and_ crossbow in her tent, and wasn’t that just fucking great? She stumbles into the foray, eyes searching for survivors, friends, _anybody_.

Her blood is thrumming, singing for a fight. This is her home, and there's no chance in hell she's just going to stand back and watch. Ygritte spots something in the distance and rushes over. “Get off her,” she grunts, bodily slamming herself into a wight that was trying to tear into a young girl. She smashes her thick boots into its skull, crushing the bone with a satisfactory crunch. Thin wisps of rotten skin flake off and stick to her furs but she doesn’t care. She swings and takes out another thin, brittle neck with the dagger, giving the young girl enough time to grab a sword fallen in the ground.

The girl, Ygritte distantly recognizes her as Ferny, nods her thanks, wild and dirty blonde hair swinging in the night winds. “I thought you was scouting!” the girl screams at her over the sounds of battle. Ferny takes out another two as Ygritte busies herself with some stragglers rushing in from the burning camp. “What happened out there?”

“I don’t know!” Ygritte yells back, grabbing Ferny by the hood of her fur coat and hauling them both towards the burning camp. “Have you seen Mance?”

The girl shrugs helplessly, spinning around to take in everything around them. She’s shaking and freaking out. Ygritte slaps her. Hard. “Pull yourself together! Go find any survivors you can—ask about Mance!”

Ferny nods jerkily and rushes off into the woods, where the fire blazes strongly and the shouting is the loudest.

Ygritte barely has time to think about her anymore before dashing back into the burning camp, clambering into her tent with a dagger in hand. She grabs and reaches around blindly for her crossbow and sword. Just as she manages to wrap her hands around both, something pushes her into the mushy snow; an ugly thing, all snapping jaws and putrid smelling. Its guttural groaning and lifeless icy eyes bear down on her. It's heavy, pushing her down so she can't swing her weapons. Just as suddenly, its skull splinters, bits of rotten flesh, bone, and skin scatter in the wind. A large hand roughly grabs her and pulls her up. Tormund—and she’ll never admit how relieved she is to see his hulking person—cuts through the skeleton smoothly with his large sword. “Come with me!” he yells over the rushing wind and charges off.

She pulls out an arrow and notches it into the crossbow, rushing after him and taking every shot she can.  _Don’t look at their faces_ , she tells herself. _Just shoot_. Even in the chaos… a few of these wights look awfully familiar. She determinedly ignores this and keeps notching the arrow-bolts and letting them soar. They push their way through the woods, past screams and what she hopes to god isn’t the sound of teeth feasting on flesh. Ygritte is certain that this sound will follow her into her dreams and nightmares. It's _deafening_.  

In all their years, all these nomadic travels, she has never seen anything quite like this. Tormund swings again, and something splatters against the trees. An awful crunching sound occurs when a crossbow-bolt cuts through a wight’s left eye, pinning it to an oak. The body underneath the wight jerks. She doesn’t think about how similar those furs are to her own before running forwards and shoving her dagger through the thin skull of the wight onto the body underneath. She closes her eyes as she removes the blade with a squelching sound. The twitching ceases.

“Fuck,” she whispers under her breath, scrambling away and after Tormund again.

It's at a small clearing that she finds Mance, Ryk, and some other free folk in a middle of a battle respite. Mance sees them and signals for them to get down, gesturing to something in the far distance. They drop closer to the snow and slowly, clumsily crawl their way over to the others, hiding behind fallen logs and boulders. She recognizes half her scouting group here, and relief floods her. At least she hasn’t lost Jarl and his men. They can still win this yet.

Mance turns to them, voice low and severe. “Good, you found her. You two need to head south.”

“South? Why in the hell would we need—wait, you’re not coming with?” Tormund demands in a quiet hush. Though with his booming voice it’s hardly subtle. She roughly shoves him.

“If we all stay here, we’re going to die!” Mance hisses at them. “I’ve already sent Dalla and Val away with the pregnant or injured. Now I need you to head south for me.”

“Why would we leave you and head south?” Ygritte asks, bewildered. “We’ll be killed, or worse, captured! I’d rather stay here and fight! With our people...”

Mance gestures around. “This is important, you need to listen to me! You know how I’ve sent out some crews recently?”

They nod. “I’ve had them following the cold trails—exactly like what we felt tonight... I don’t think we were invaded,” Mance whispers in hush.

“What does that mean?” she demands, a cold feeling of dread flooding her body. “Of course we were invaded…”

“No,” Ryk says, hands gripping his sword tightly. “People turned. There ain’t been any signs of wights or nothing. Next thing you know, they come pouring out from the tents. Our own people! It was chaos.”

“That’s not possible,” Tormund mutters.

Mance silences them with a quelling look. “This is serious. You need to go south and find the other search crews I’ve sent out. Give word about what happened here—I want to know what they know.” He shoves a rolled parchment into her hands. “This map should have some of their plans.”

“I belong here in the north! We belong here with you!” she hisses at him, Tormund at her back. “This is my family…”

Mance looks around at them, serious and somber. “We’ve lost the camp, but we won’t lose everyone else, understand me? I will not leave these people, and I need you to do this.” He turns to her and Tormund. “For me. For us.”

He looks seriously at her and Tormund. “You must go,” he pushes them back towards the woods, leaning over and glancing at the fighting in the distance. “Go. Now!”

She staggers into Tormund and opens her mouth to protest, but something in Mance’s eyes stop them. “We’ll come back,” she promises them, dead earnest. “So you better stay alive for us.”

Tormund grabs Mance's shoulder tightly. “Save us some kills, too, you goddamned asshole.”

They stagger back into the woods, with the urgency and energy thrumming underneath her skin, Ygritte finds that this is the fastest she’s probably ever moved. She turns back before passing the last hill on the outcrop, staring numbly at the shadows of their camp, flickering in the raging flames. Tormund makes a distressed choked-up sound from beside her. It's chaotic, it's _heartbreaking_.

“We’ve got to go,” she says quietly to him, breaths coming out in quick puffs. "We've got to go right now, Tormund."

He glances at her, eyes hard and determined. When they turn their back on the camp—their home—they don’t look back. They climb snowy hills with shaky legs and heavy hearts, listening to the fading screams in the background. It isn't until the sounds dissipate altogether that she finally slows down, slumping down into the snow with Tormund by her side.

As the last vestiges of summer fade to fall, the sky above Eastwatch is set ablaze with fire embers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's in the fire now *finger guns*
> 
> \- Most characters will get viewpoints, but the main chapters will mostly be the Targaryen siblings and Robb.


	4. Jon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the warnings for graphic depictions of violence. (Just in case.)

## Fall

He’s always loved this time of day; the sun was still on its way up, gardens blessedly quiet and still. There’s a calmness in the air that he desperately yearns to feel inside. Jon settles numbly against the cold stone fountain, uncaring about the morning dew melting into his pants. His fingers run along the grass, pulling out tufts upon tufts of greenery. Jon’s angry and confused; his whole world, tilted as it was, has finally upended over his head. Last night wasn’t a shock—he’s known about his parents’ indiscretions since he was a child, barely old enough to understand why everybody keeps whispering and glancing at him. He’s been silently bearing the situation his whole life, feeling powerless in every situation.

The transgressions never end. His parents were married unlawfully; they had planned on taking Elia Martell’s pride, hope, dignity, her children… _And then what?_ What else could they have planned to do? Christ, is he a bastard? These questions have been running through his mind all night, keeping him tossing and turning in a fitful sleep.

“Shit,” Jon whispers brokenly, forcefully throwing the grass tufts away. “How could you? _How dare you?_ ”

The morning wind howls back mockingly.

What should he do? How are the Martells going to react? Would Aegon and Rhaenys still talk to him, or should he expect cold, righteous fury for the insult against their mother? Does he dare tell Viserys and Daenerys, and would they even care? The hows, the whys, the shoulds, the woulds; Jon hates that he’s in this position. _This isn’t my fault_ , he thinks furiously. Desperately. _It was never, ever my fault_.

“Gods,” Jon sighs, dropping his head against cool stone and letting the chill sink into his whole being. “What a fucking mess.”

“Something the matter, young Targaryen?”

He jerks at the voice, spinning around to see Jaime Lannister watching him curiously. How long has the man been there, and what did he hear? Jon thought he was the only person awake at this hour, for he hasn’t even run into any household staff.  He tries to pull his face into something resembling calm nonchalance, not tumultuous hopelessness. If anybody can sense weakness and strike, it’s the Lannisters. “Nothing’s the matter, Lord Lannister,” Jon lies. He quickly racks his brain for a proper excuse. “I’m feeling nervous, regarding, uh, Thursday’s ball. I was never a talented dancer unfortunately.”

Lannister scrutinizes him silently before turning towards the sky. “Nice morning, isn’t it?” the man asks conversationally. “I’ve always liked getting up before the sunrise, sleeping in always seemed like such a waste of the day.”

“Do you need something, milord?” Jon presses, not unkindly. “I was hoping for a moment to myself, before the estate wakes up.”

“Not at all. I was merely on a walk, but I suppose it’s fortuitous,” Lannister says vaguely. “That I should find you out here, lost in your thoughts as I am in mine.”

_Stop waffling and leave me be_ , Jon wants to say. _You perfect-looking prick_. He dislikes the man and his family on principle: they’re facetious and ambitious, you’d have to be blind not to see it. Jon neither has the time nor the patience to deal with such people and he pointedly turns away, hoping Lannister will catch the hint and leave. Jon just wants to gather his wits before breakfast, before he needs to smile and play nice with the guests. Before he has to pretend at being the perfect Lord he isn’t. Quite literally, now that Jon knows the truth.

Jon thinks about all the possibilities that could play out; are there chances for reconciliation or should he prepare himself for lawsuits and prosecution? What could the Martells sue him for? Wrongful claims to courtly titles, or literal robbery of a person’s estate, perhaps? He imagines Aegon and Rhaenys stripping down the Targaryen empire with their bare hands; burning the family provenance with a fire fueled by hatred and revenge, and finds that he doesn’t mind that thought as much as he should.

Lannister’s still there when Jon looks back. The man has his hands on his hips, watching the tree branches sway in the wind. He looks peaceful, as if everything in his life has slotted together the way he’s always planned it. Lannister’s handsome, charming, a talented swordsman, rich… What thoughts could possibly be plaguing him?

“What were you thinking about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jon asks, if only to distract himself. “I doubt a man like you is troubled by very much.”

Lannister smiles humorlessly. “Something troubles everybody, young Targaryen.” He looks at the sky for a moment longer. “I think I’ll be heading inside for breakfast,” the man says instead, granting Jon an obviously calculating once-over. “Perhaps I’ll leave you to your thoughts, you clearly have a lot of them.”

Lannister turns on his heels, pausing and cocking an ear to the wind. “You really should shut those pests up,” he says mildly, though there’s a clear warning in his voice. He nods in the direction of the animal pens. “Or perhaps you should put them down. They’re loud and dangerous, clearly not household pet material.”

“I assure you they’re not pests, Lord Lannister,” Jon replies coldly. He can hear the direwolves, sure, but they certainly aren’t _that_ loud. “Though I suppose with the company you keep, you wouldn’t know, would you?” And because he’s done with the false pleasantries, Jon adds “I suppose if you’re looking for insufferably barking and yapping, you’ll need to look no further than your nephew’s room.”

Lannister smiles tightly, eyes flashing. “Charming,” the man says before he turns on his heel and strides back inside the estate. Jon glares at his retreating back, sighing because his time of solitude and peace has run its course. He’ll have to rush upstairs and change before breakfast; his pants are stained of grass and damp with dew, hair windswept and unkempt. He probably looks exactly like he feels; tragic.

The back door leading to the kitchens and lower levels are open. From this distance it looks like a dark shadow, swaying in the early wind. He doesn’t see any groundskeepers—which is rather unusual, mornings tend to be the busiest time of the day for household staff. Surely they’re awake now?

Jon pauses when he makes it back into the warmth of the mansion, shocked that the curtains are still partially drawn and the dining rooms have yet to be set for breakfast. How could the staff be so negligent, and while they have visiting guests, no less?

“Late night, Jon?” Robb’s voice calls peaceably. “You look terrible.”

Jon rolls his eyes, turning towards the voice. Robb and Theon Greyjoy languidly make their way down the large spiraling staircase, still sleepy and mussed. They’re dressed for the day’s events, though Robb’s outercoat is unevenly buttoned and Theon’s hair is still flattened on one side. He shakes his head at Jon as they pass. “Sansa and Arya started bickering earlier,” Theon grumbles. “We had to get up and intervene, lest they wake up the whole floor. Tell me the coffee’s ready, Targaryen.”

“Coffee sounds amazing,” Robb yawns, patting Jon’s shoulder in greeting before visibly deflating when he sees the dining room. “Where is the food?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Jon answers. “I was about to ask somebody, but nobody has been by…”

The door leading down to the kitchens and lower living quarters is still closed. It’s not unusual, lower servants often lock the downstairs area when there’s guests—it’s not exactly a place for the nobility to wander—though it’s still unusually quiet. Jon picks up a slight tapping sound when he gets closer; an inconsistent shuffling and scraping against stone, and perhaps a very gentle scratching against wood. “Good morning?” Jon calls. He knocks once and pulls on the doorknob, but finds that it’s still bolted tight. “Is something wrong down there?”

Dead silence rings for about two seconds before all hell breaks loose.

Loud screeching suddenly echoes out from behind the door and something thumps hard against the thick wood, pulling and shaking at the hinges. In that moment Jon finally catches the scent. Oh Gods, the _scent_. He’s smelt putrid flesh before, but never to this extent. Before he can move, the door smashes open and he’s pushed back by the momentum. “Fuc—” Jon chokes as his collar is forcefully pulled back by Robb.

“Shit! Wights!” Theon’s voice rings out, the three of them clambering over expensive rugs and slippery stone. “Get them away from the staircase!”

They push their way out the front door with a loud smash, boots slipping on wet grass as snapping jaws and groans follow on their tails. Jon glances back to see a few wights take to the stairs—something having caught their attention. “Tell me you have something!” Jon shouts over at Robb as they detour for the hedge maze. “I’ve left everything inside!”

“Why would I bring a weapon to breakfast?” Robb screams back, voice barely carrying over the screeches. “ _What kind of person brings a weapon to breakfast?_ ”

Their heads immediately snap towards Theon. “You!” they accuse in unison.

“Don’t fucking scream at me!” he shouts back stressfully, shooting quick glances at the trailing wights. “I don’t have anything! We need a distraction, we’re far enough from the estate!”

Jon gestures to the side and they make a wide arc past the gardens, probably trampling Mother’s winter roses in the process. He grabs a spade the gardeners have left behind and spins, swinging in a wide arc, taking out a skull with a sickening and satisfying _pop_. He gets a splattering of brains for his efforts. “ _Fuck!_ Okay, go now! And don’t you forget my sword!”

Robb gapes at him but nods, stumbling slightly on the wet grass. Theon, now leading the group, nods at Jon before pulls Robb with him forcefully by the coat. Jon barely has time to turn away before something vaguely skeletal grabs at his boots and he unthinkingly crushes it underfoot. He slices through another’s arm with the spade’s metal blade, distracting most of the wights before taking off towards the gates, trying to make as much noise as possible. His heart thuds heavily and his breath catches in his throat, the coldness of the air pushing hard against his airways. Jon wants to look back but he can’t, they’re so close and he can’t afford to waste a single second. The sound of nauseatingly squishy _snap clacks_ of clacking jaws seems to get louder with every breath he takes.

Jon stumbles and lunges for the front gates, dropping the spade and pulling at the black metal bars desperately with numb hands. It doesn’t budge and _of course_ it’s locked, because _what the hell was he thinking?_

“Keys, keys, keys,” Jon chants to himself, patting down his empty pockets. “Fuck!”

He spins and keeps running, feeling icy, brittle nails rake against his neck. It’s so cold that the feeling lingers against his nape, much like a twisted lover’s touch. Jon chances a glance back and instantly wishes he hasn’t; lifeless grey-blue eyes descend on him, jaws streaked with dried blood hits him forcefully on the forehead and knocks him to the grass. He rolls with the momentum and instinctively pushes against the insistent face. “Oh Gods,” he gasps, horrified as rotting, flaking skin splits around him. The thing spits and snarls as Jon’s fingers sink into cold, rotting bone, and he stares, horrified, as his thumb accidentally slips into its eye socket with a squelch. The thing snaps and writhes on top of him and Jon shoves at it, crushing the skull. Bone concaves in his hands and sticky, freezing wetness pours down his wrists and splatters on his face. He knees the limp body unceremoniously off himself and scrambles onto his feet, lightheaded and nauseous.

_I have brain on me!_ His mind unhelpfully repeats. _Brain!_

Jon runs along the gate line, trying to kick up speed but his breaths are uneven and he’s practically wheezing frost. In the distance, swinging in the wind, is the back gate. He pushes himself harder, praying for a miracle when a loud voice rings out. “Duck!” Theon screams, before the sound of a shooting pistol heard. Bone shatters and a _riiiing_ ricochets against the gate as Jon throws himself to the side. Behind the deafening screeching he can just make out the sound of a dropping body, too close for comfort. Jon glances over in a daze; Theon, Asha, Trystane, and Robb have their weapons out, cutting quickly through the distracted horde. A few clamber on top of him in his distraction, but Jon manages to wrestle with them; unarmed but determined. It takes almost no time for Robb to cut through these wights, wide-eyed and windswept.

“Fuck! Did he hit you?” Robb demands harshly. His eyes rake over Jon’s form for a few seconds before silence finally settles behind them, the last of the wights dropping. Asha and Trystane examine the bodies as Theon jogs over, percussion cap still held loosely in his hand. “Are you oka—”

“—what the hell was that? You could have hit Jon!” Robb hisses.

“Well I _didn’t miss_ and I saved his bloody life, Stark,” Theon retorts.

“That was a risky shot! You shouldn’t have taken it!”

“Enough,” Jon mutters as he cleans his filthy hands on the grass. “Thank you, Theon. Come on we’ve go back ins—”

Something shatters inside the mansion and Jon’s stomach lurches as a large scream ring out. Heavy rhythmic thumping—the sounds of scrambling footsteps on a staircase—soon follows. The five of them snap back to attention.

Jon jumps to his feet, ready to run back inside when he’s stopped by Asha’s hand on his chest. “Stop! Is that where they came from?” she hisses, gesturing to the gates. “We have to make sure that there aren’t any more.”

Trystane wipes his sword on the grass, flipping a wight over. “These ones came from another house,” he mutters, squinting down at its collar. “There’s an insignia on its coat, though it’s not very familiar. They must have traveled from another estate, Asha’s right, there’s bound to be more.”

“We’ve got to deal with the ones inside first!” Jon rounds on Robb. His cousin glances between Asha and Jon, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

“I know, Jon,” Robb answers in a whisper, mindful of the quiet sounds in the yard. He hands Jon Longclaw, and Jon’s so distracted he didn’t even realize Robb was holding it the whole time. “But we can’t… Asha’s right. We’ve got to follow our training. Where there’s one, there’s always more and we’ve got to weed out the whole horde, remember?”

Robb doesn’t sound utterly happy about it himself, but he knows that he’s right. Jon glances back at the estate, from the swinging gate to the battered back doors. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Look,” Theon hisses, gesturing between them and the mansion. “There are trained knights and lords who have fought in _literal wars_ in that mansion right now, they will be fine! Asha is right, while the pack is distracted, we need to use this opportunity to make sure there aren’t any more. And there is _always_ more.”

_They’re right_ , Jon begrudgingly admits. He can’t afford to forget the most basic of rules from their training now.

“Okay,” Jon concedes, taking one last look at the estate. They can still hear loud shouting, though there’s also the sound of clanging metal. “We’d better hurry.”

Asha pushes past them, knocking the swinging gate aside with a flick of her wrist. “Come on, then,” she says in a steady voice. “Let’s get this over with.”

She does, pause as she passes however, grabbing Jon’s shoulder in confidence, eyes equally conflicted. 

They leave the estate behind, glancing back furtively before letting the sounds of battle drift away.

Asha and Trystane lead the group; clearly the Ironborn and Dornish train themselves to be scouts _and_ hunters. They pick at stones and turn over leaves with thoughtful looks that only manages to baffle Jon. He was never much of a scout, and neither was Robb, so they hang back, swords at the ready and ears pricked for unusual sounds. Theon keeps the rear, watching out for any clues the others may have missed. With each crunch of a twig, each splatter of mud, each breath, Jon feels more anxious about leaving the estate. Gods, to think about all the families they’ve left behind…

“I think I’ve got something,” Asha suddenly whispers. She’s holding a thin strip of grey fabric, standing against a very steep landslip. She passes it over to Trystane, gesturing to some small, indiscriminate marks on the ground. “There’s heavy tracks around here. It’s not too fresh and it’s not icy.” She tsks. “No wights, but a small group of people came through here.” She turns to the group, shrugging. “These are the only tracks we could find. I think we should follow it, just to make sure.”

They glance around at each other before nodding at her. They have little choice, ‘thoroughness above all else’ has been a maxim they’ve all been taught. Asha turns and reaches for a branch, using ancient tree roots as footholds and climbing the landslip with all the ease and grace Jon can never hope to imitate. Trystane and Robb move to follow, and Jon’s about to grab a branch when Theon grabs his arm. “Jon… move… slowly.”

They all freeze. Only Asha and Trystane have made it up to the crest and they gaze down with wide eyes. Robb, only halfway up, quietly climbs down to join them. Jon holds his breath. Underneath the cracking of the leaves and the low wind howls, he finally hears it. A low shuffling sound, dragging in an incredibly uneven and heavy pattern. It’s most definitely heading in their direction.

“Stragglers,” Theon hisses. “Move!”

Asha and Trystane grab their weapons, flattening themselves against the grass, but Theon waves desperately at them. “Go!” he hisses. “It’s not like you can climb back down. We’ll catch up!”

Asha glares at her brother but relents, pulling a reluctant Trystane after her. They glance back once more before Jon loses sight of them. He crouches and keeps close to the ground, making his way away from the hill and closer to a copse of boulders and trees, Theon and Robb following suit. They flatten their backs against the largest boulder, trying to still and quieten their quick breathing. The shuffling sound gets louder and quicker, echoing off the trees in such a way that he can’t determine their precise location. Jon listens quietly to the mushy leaves crackling and the quick smattering of mud and puddles underfoot, counting quietly in his head. “There’s at least a dozen,” Jon whispers, fingers trailing over Longclaw’s hilt. “We could split up and distract them, or we could take them head on. Our odds aren’t bad.”

He quickly gestures to the boulders half a yard away. “Theon can set up over there and take sho—”

Robb’s hand snaps up and covers Jon’s mouth. It’s gone silent and still, the shuffling footsteps have ceased completely. Theon, closest to the edge of the boulder, slowly and carefully peers over the top. He glances around for a few short moments before inching himself back into cover, shaking his head.

“I don’t have a good sight line. I need to get higher,” Theon whispers, gripping his pistol tightly.

“We shoul—”

Later, when he thinks back on this moment, Jon could swear that there was a crackle of _something_ in the air, something that preluded the attack. The temperature dropped so quickly that his stomach lurched and chest burned. Robb whips around trying to quieten Theon but it’s too late. Long, cracked, and rotten hands reach over the boulder. It scrapes and pulls, scratching and tearing the pale of Theon’s neck. His choked off scream of pain is deafened by the roaring sound of snarling and snapping jaws. Wights clamber around and over the boulder, like something out of his nightmares. Jon throws himself forward when a wight gets too close for comfort, swinging Longclaw in an arc, cutting and catching at bone and ligament.

Behind him, he can hear Robb grunting and slicing through more wights. There’s so much movement that Jon can’t find him or Theon the mania. His distraction costs him. For the second time today, Jon loses his footing on slick mud. He falls face first into the dirt, instinctively turning just enough for hands, teeth, and greasy strings of hair obscure his vision, but enough for him to breathe. The thing pushes him so hard into the ground that he struggles move his limbs. The sword clutters out of arms reach and Jon throws his hand out, grabbing at something stringy and flaky, desperately trying to move. He crushes and yanks at anything in reach, pulling out wisps of hair from rotted scalps and tearing flesh off bone. His lungs burn, he can’t breathe anymore and he can barely see or hear _anything_. His struggles become more and more desperate. Jon jerks against the pressure, trying to turn his face away from the dirt fully. A voice in his mind screams _Push up! Push up! Breathe!_ But he’s struggling, it’s so heavy, maybe if he reaches out he can reach—

Something sluices through the muck, a glinting Valyrian blade. The writhing slows before it stops altogether. _Is that you, Longclaw?_ he wonders numbly. Soon, the weight is fully lifted off him and he’s roughly spun around. There’s a dark shadow obscuring the leafy canopies above, and when he blinks, his sister materializes from the dark.

“There you go,” her voice rings. “Just breathe, Jon. It’s me.”

Rhaenys hefts him up, hand unconsciously roaming over his body in search of bites. She’s out of breath and flushed, as if she ran all the way from the estate and hasn’t stopped since. From behind her, he spies Theon, pale and bleeding but alive. Jon slumps against his sister, turning to see Robb slicing through the last of the wights. His cousin turns and freezes, gaping at Rhaenys. He opens and closes his mouth comically but doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure that Theon just scoffed behind them, but it could be the pain. Jon turns back to his sister, finally taking notice of the mud, blood, and stringy meat on her white dress. Her very thin, lacy dress.

“Lady Rhaenys?” Robb finally finds his voice, unbuttoning his overcoat in haste. “What are you doing out here? Are you okay?”

Robb thrusts the coat out awkwardly and Rhaenys accepts the proffered coat with a wry smile. Jon’s mind finally connects the dots; he was wondering what kind of unusual gown it was. They’re undergarments. His sister’s still in her shift, probably having just woken up to the furor.

“Thank you,” she tells Robb, a little breathlessly. She fumbles at buttoning the coat and Jon rushes to help her. His blood runs cold with worry when he sees her hands. Her fingers are bloody and some of her nails are badly torn. She’s still bleeding and her some of the fingers look _wrecked_.

“Rhaenys, what happened to your hands?” he demands, buttoning the coat for her and gently reaching for her wrists.

“My what?” Rhaenys frowns in confusion, looking down and blanching. “I don’t know, it doesn’t hurt,” she says in a quiet voice. She shakes her head, frowning but dismissing her obvious injuries in order to look him over, carefully scanning him for wounds. Her eyes catch on his face and she grimaces. “My Gods, what’s in your hair?” she tries to reach up but he intercepts her hands, frowning down at her wrecked fingers with worry.

“It’s nothing. We need to get this checked out, Rhae. What are you doing out here? And by yourself, no less?”

Robb clears his throat awkwardly, sliding around them to join Theon.

They ignore him.

“Aegon made sure I made it out of the mansion safely. That’s when I saw you five and some of these wights.” She gently kicks one. “I had to make sure you were okay, there wasn’t any time to stop and get help.”

He gently runs his thumb along the frail of her hands. “What’s happening back at the estate? What did you see?”

“Umm, the last I saw of the guests, they had things handled. Uncle Viserys took a horse out to the villages to get help, I think.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t remember much, it’s really blurry,” she says apologetically before turning back to Theon and Robb. “We should head back, Theon needs a physician, Jon. He doesn’t look well.”

“Right,” he agrees hastily, desperate to get home. “We’ve got to find Trystane and Asha first.”

“They’re over the hill. A few yards west I think,” Robb answers as he checks over Theon. His neck is still bleeding steadily and Jon winces. It doesn’t look like a bite but it is painful if the way Theon’s biting his lip is any indicator.

Rhaenys nods at Robb and turns back to Jon. “Are you… okay, Jon?”

The tentativeness in her voice and the uncharacteristic uncertainty gives him pause. She’s asking about more than today.

“I’m okay, but we should talk later,” he whispers, mindful of their company. She squeezes his arms tightly once more before pulling away, nodding. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I can’t believe you ran all the way out here, and in only your shift. It’s not very becoming,” he says lightly, moving to tighten Robb’s cloak around her. It doesn’t work, the dark grey coat hangs comically off her frame.

“We heard screaming,” Rhaenys rolls her eyes. “I didn’t have time to get dressed, brother. You men don’t know how long it takes to become presentable.”

Jon shakes his head at her, watching as Rhaenys gingerly reaches down for Longclaw and another sword, both dropped unceremoniously in the mud. Her own Valyrian weapon, he recognizes. “Let me,” he says, taking them off her hands when he sees the metal slipping from her slick fingers. “Come, Rhae. Let’s get going.”

She nods, turning around and letting Robb’s coat flutter around her. She frowns thoughtfully, picking at the material. “I can’t move or fight in this, it’s really, really stiff. I’ll be better off without it.”

Robb makes a choking sound.

“Definitely not…” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. “Do you need help, Lady Rhaenys? You’re not wearing the proper, uh, shoes. For climbing.”

She nods and Robb gently takes Rhaenys’ hand, mindful of the blood on her fingers. Rhaenys glances back at Jon and Theon, as if to check they’re both still there, before climbing the roots clumsily, delicate half-boots not made such terrain. Jon shadows them, keeping a steady hand on Theon’s back, the Ironborn lord paling considerably but still standing steady on his legs.

They’re quiet, trying their best to muffle their footsteps while following Asha’s and Trystane’s low voices and footsteps. It takes them nearly ten minutes to catch up, and with each minute passing, so rises Jon’s worry. They need to get back to estate and soon. He can’t handle the thought of leaving everybody by themselves, especially when he's just prancing about in the godforsaken woods.

Asha and Trystane are standing in what appears to be an abandoned campsite. It’s fairly large in size, large tents fluttering gently in the breeze, strips of fur and leather scattered on the ground. At the center of it all is a blackened pyre, fire snuffed, with traces of burnt meat still in its makeshift pottery. Looking around at the little knick-knacks and litter, Jon figures that it’s only been recently abandoned. Robb and Rhaenys gently walk Theon over to a boulder as Jon tries to pick out clues from the surroundings. There isn’t anything truly descriptive or interesting—though a few spent bullet casings does catch his eye.

_Hunters_ , perhaps.

Asha turns and gazes at her brother with worry, holding what looks like a leather parchment in her hands. She moves to join him but aborts, turning back to Jon with hard eyes. Trystane glances between them and Rhaenys quickly before gesturing Jon over. “See these marks?” he points to rough grooves in the dirt. “There was a scuffle here—it’s probably not a wights doing because there’s no ice. There’s minimal tracks headed west so it’s safe to presume that there were no detours towards the villages.” Trystane shrugs a little hopelessly. “These tracks also look like hoof prints, but I can’t be certain because the tracks are soiled.”

“Damn,” Jon mutters. “Can you tell how long this place has been abandoned?”

Trystane shrugs. “Around two to three weeks is my best guess.”

Asha sighs roughly from beside him, glaring at the spent bullets. “It all ends here. The tracks have been interfered with, like somebody tried to cover them up.”

Jon sighs. He can’t believe they left the estate just to find… nothing. “What do you have there?” Jon asks, gesturing to the parchment in her hands.

“Take a look for yourself,” she replies, frowning down at it. She gently hands it over. The leather of it, boar skin, his mind supplies, is frayed from frequent rolling and unrolling.

Robb and Trystane start examining the deserted tents as Rhaenys settles Theon down against a log. His sister cuts a clean strip of fabric from her shift, creating a makeshift bandage for Theon. She’s muttering soothing words in low tones, tying the fabric tightly around the deep scratches on his neck. The skin there is slowly turning blue from blood loss and the flow doesn’t seem to be slowing. Asha watches the proceedings with dark, concerned eyes.

Jon doesn’t notice any of that, too focused on the map in his hands. He traces the faded ink with his fingers; figures detailed and telling in the worst of ways.

***

The trek back to the manor is tense. They’re trying to move as fast as they can while being as quiet as they can. They’re all eager to head back to the mansion, leaving the campsite abandoned once again. Jon’s holding the fraying parchment in his hands. It was a map; very detailed and crudely hand-drawn, annotated in a chicken scratch none of them could properly decipher. What they all agree on is the careful detailing of various Westerosi landmarks and lands; whatever it is that these people were doing, they were thorough. 

Jon’s worried; these people have clearly staked out more than his just home, each area of interest was cleverly annotated in their scrawls. They’ve marked many things on the map, none which concerns him more than the harsh circling around a miniature (and accurate) recreation of the Rosby estate. He could just make out the word 'wight' before it was scribbled over. There’s clear tracks and trails detailed all over the map. His mind tells him that these people are more than mere hunters. They’ve clearly been tracking something… but what? Not wights, certainly. The undead are too predictable for such clear, detailed plans.

He’s distracted the whole way back, mind mulling over the possibilities, each one raising more questions than the last.

Rhaenys and Trystane lead the group, Asha carefully guiding Trystane just behind them. Their quick steps and somber mood just makes the situation more depressing. Robb’s walking beside him, occasionally sending Jon concerned glances. His cousin reaches for his arm, certain that they can’t be overheard. “What do you think?” Robb asks in a low voice.

His blue eyes bore into Jon’s own.

“I don’t know,” Jon tells him honestly. “First the wights and now this, Robb? I don’t know anything.”

Robb hums, a worried frown on his face. “From what I saw inside, it looks like the wights were there all night. But why were they dormant all this time? I don’t understand.” His cousin frowns. “Unless they were distracted by some kind of noise?”

Jon nods. “The wolves. I heard them howling this morning, the wights must have—”

“—been distracted,” Robb finishes. “It’s why they didn’t break through earlier. We were all quiet and asleep. Christ, the bloody luck.”

“We had near fifty lower servants living here,” Jon says quietly, numbly. “They must be gone. Every soul.” He clenches the parchment tighter. “We had another near fifty that _didn’t_ live on the estate… but I’m not certain if they were here this morning or not.”

Robb sighs. “I’m sorry. Having to see your home like this must be hard.”

“Well, I haven’t actually _seen_ the damage yet” He grimaces. “Material things can be replaced, people can’t.”

Robb shoots him a small smile, trying and failing at comforting.

It doesn’t take too long for them to reach the edge of the woods. There’s sunlight streaking through the gaps between trees. It’s warm and bright and comforting but it also fills him with dread. What are they going to find when they get back? Will there be anything _to_ find?

“Oh,” Rhaenys utters, bringing up a hand to block out the light.

“That was fast,” Theon murmurs weakly, clutching at his neck.

Jon blinks into the sunlight. They must have taken a longer detour through the woods, emerging far enough away that all he can see is some dark blobs in the distance. Tell-tale carriages from the villages, it seems. The local militia have arrived, and in force by the looks of it—they’ve practically blocked the whole front gate with their numbers.

_Oh, Uncle Viserys_ , Jon thinks fervently. _You did it_.

They sprint back towards the estate, blood thrumming in their veins. With each step that brings him closer, something unclenches from around his chest. Things must have been handled when they were away; large groups of guests mill about, clutching at each other fervently and talking amongst themselves. Trystane waves and calls when he spots his sister and mother in the distance, face flushing with relief. He jogs over to his family, one hand gently gripping Rhaenys’ own as they cut through the crowds. Asha nods at them once before she heads off as well, gently guiding a rapidly paling Theon alongside her.

“Do you see them? My siblings?” Robb asks worriedly, grabbing him and pulling. “I can’t see anything.”

They jog numbly around the yard, occasionally reaching out for each other’s arms for support, like some parody of their childhood years; young little boys roughhousing in the gardens. Robb rushes off when a young voice screams for him. Bran, pale and tear-streaked, runs across the yard for his brother, little legs slipping on the wet grass. Robb drops and catches him half-way, pulling him tight against his body. Bran stuffs his face against Robb’s neck, eyes flicking between him and Jon, glistening wet.

“Jon! You’re okay too,” his cousin whispers, reaching for him. Jon’s so glad to see that he’s safe, leaning down to kiss the boy’s curling hair, clutching his little hand tightly.

“Oh, Bran,” he whispers into the boy’s hair. “Where are your Mother and Father?”

“Yes,” Robb asks, shifting him in his arms. “Are they okay, sweetling? What of Rickon and your sisters?”

Bran nods against Robb’s shoulders, whispering something in Robb’s ear before resolutely tucking his face away, wisps of auburn hair curling in the wind. Robb gestures with his head and Jon follows them inside. He’s still holding Bran’s hand, the boy stubbornly refusing to let go despite Jon lagging behind. Jon glances around, trying to brace himself for the impact, anxiously trying to ascertaining the extent of the damage. The walls are smeared with dark grey streaks and there’s broken glass and ceramic everywhere. With every step there’s a disgusting squelching sound underfoot, and occasionally, should somebody step on a brittle piece of bone, they could hear a loud _crunch_ reverberate down the halls.

_This isn’t too bad_ , he desperately tries to tell himself. Somebody had obviously cleared the bodies out to the yards, making the hallways slightly more bearable to walk through. If only he can forget the scent. Oh Gods, _the scent_.

“Father!” Robb suddenly calls, finding Uncle Ned in the chaos. His cousin pushes through the crowd determinedly and Jon moves to follow, only to spot pale, silver hair in the distance. Relief and warmth floods him so fast that his vision blurs a little. It looks like Father, standing tall and bright against the sunlit windows. Jon’s about to call out for the man when he recognizes Aegon’s voice.

His brother is helping Margaery Tyrell to her feet, holding her hands gently as he talks to her older brothers. She looks disheveled, quite unlike than the prim and proper Lady of Highgarden they’re all used to seeing. She doesn’t look frail or weak; there’s a hardness in her eyes as she furiously berates her brothers for something. She has a small dagger in her hands, holding it daintily but dangerously. As Jon nears, he sees Margaery glancing over at his brother, a genuine relief in her eyes, blush dusting her cheeks. Aegon doesn’t see it because he finally catches sight of Jon over the crowd. His face breaks into a blinding smile, releasing Margaery into the care of her family before rushing over.

“Jon! My Gods are you alright?” Aegon breathes out, eyes raking over him quickly before his head snaps up to scan the hallways. “Where’s my sister? Have you seen Rhaenys?”

“She’s okay, Aegon, relax! She’s by the front with your cousins and Duchess Mellario,” Jon tells him, gripping his shoulders. There’s warmth and life under his hands and Jon’s so bloody _relieved_.

“Good,” his brother murmurs, eyes trailing over Jon once more before he sees the parchment. “What is that?”

“Another problem,” Jon mutters, rubbing at his head tiredly. “Have you seen Father? Or my Mother?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says. He shakes his head distractedly, blowing away stray strands of silver hair. “Lady Lyanna was really valiant, Jon. Your mother single-handedly,” he gesticulates something undecipherable. “Goodness, and I thought Nymeria was dangerous with a blade…”

“Aegon,” Jon shakes him back into attention. His indigo eyes snap back to meet Jon’s own. “Where are they?”

“Oh, right. They’re out back, last I saw, and Aunt Daenerys and Uncle Viserys are upstairs. Look wait a minute, Jon,” Aegon draws him close with a gentle hand on his arm. “Are you okay? About… last night?”

The intensity in his brother’s eyes as he watches him makes Jon’s heart heavier. He doesn’t know what to say so he just nods jerkily. Now’s not a good time for that discussion, they’re in the middle of the hallway surrounded by—and he’s not going to call them strangers—but they certainly aren’t friends. “Yeah, but we should talk later,” Jon answers quietly.

Aegon glances around them, nodding once. “That’s a good idea. I have to go find Rhaenys, check if she’s okay. Everything was a mess this morning and I feel terrible about forcing her out,” his brother bites his lip with a grimace. “Gods, I’m an awful brother.”

“She handled herself very well,” Jon replies, placating. “Though she would have been safer with you, Aegon. She was barely dressed—Christ, she could have been _bitten_.”

“Fuck, I know, okay? But it was better that way, she was in one of her dazes and I couldn’t risk losing her to herself, you must understand,” Aegon answers, sullen. “I wonder how angry she is with me...”

_Losing her to herself?_ Jon wants to ask. _What in the seven hells do you mean?_

He just shrugs instead. Clearly there’s much to be discussed at a later time.

“Look, I’ve got to find Rhae—I’ll find you later,” Aegon promises, patting him on the shoulder. His brother is glancing around again. But before he leaves, he stops and plucks at something in Jon’s hair, long and stringy tendon by the looks of it. “Umm, what is th—”

“—don’t ask,” Jon sighs, patting at Aegon's face. “You don’t want to know. Go find Rhaenys and make sure she sees a physician or something.”

Aegon nods, turning and taking off in a light jog, moving so quickly that Jon loses sight of him after a few seconds. He turns and sees Robb and Uncle Ned in the sitting room, talking in low, quiet voices. Aunt Catelyn and his cousins watch nervously from where they’re huddled together on a couch. They look unharmed but scared and Jon wants desperately to join them but he doesn’t want to intrude. It looks like a quiet family moment and he really should be looking for his own. Jon turns away and pushes his way to the back doors, mind finally catching up to him. It was niggling at the back of his since Aegon left but he hadn’t realized what it was.

“ _Where’s my sister?_ ” Aegon had asked him. _My sister_.

It was a slip of the tongue, Aegon hadn’t realized what he had said. It was so natural to the both of them that Jon didn’t even notice it at the time; he just accepted it. He didn’t think about it because it seemed right, had always seemed right.

She’s Aegon’s sister first and foremost, not Jon’s.

His hands clench over the doorknob, mind numb. Of course last night changed things, of fucking course. They aren’t siblings of equal—they never have and never will be. It hurts and he doesn’t allow his mind to dwell on it, pushing the battered door open to find his parents’ pale and worried faces. They’re tired, pale, battered, but miraculously, _thankfully_ , still alive and unharmed. Mother is covered in sweat and dirt, dress ripped and torn in several places but she looks lively, eyes bright as she turns to see him. She grabs and pulls him close, “ _Oh Jonny, sweetling_ ,” her voice murmurs. She lays a fervent kiss against his hair and Jon’s heart bursts with relief, arms coming up to grip her tightly. Father looks as kempt as ever but the relief in his eyes is evident as well. He practically swoops down on Jon, arms circling around them both. Jon hooks his head over Father’s shoulder, feeling like a child again, wrapped in his parents’ warm embraces. He can almost forget all the troubling news of his family—almost.

But in this moment, everything is good, everything is perfect. He holds them tighter.

 ***

The clean-up takes more than half the day. Neighboring estates had allowed their maids and servers to help with the process, and even some caring volunteers from the villages have lent a hand. Others helped out in their own ways, opening their doors and kitchens to the stranded guests, and most of them, particularly the Lannisters, were very eager to accept. Jon’s secretly relieved; he can’t handle their presence in the tattered remnants of his home. _Go away forever_ , he wants to say. _Leave us to our wounds_. Since the last thing anybody needs right now are flaring tempers, he decides to keep his mouth shut.

Only Uncle Ned’s family, Lord Brynden, Theon, Asha, Lord Arryn, his sibling’s family, and Sir Arthur have decided to stay at the estate for the duration of the restoration. 

Jon watches as handymen and craftsman go about installing and fixing new doors in the dying light, his own hands greasy from hammering away all morning. Ghost lazes by his feet, finally quiet and content now that the estate is safe and cleared. The pup occasionally lets out a comforting and familiar yowl, rubbing his little snout against Jon’s boots whenever he wants attention. Jon absentmindedly scratches his ears. He would prefer to have a few days set out for mourning and writing condolence letters—most of the dead have been around since he was a toddler and he knew them well—but his parents are adamant that everything returns to normal as quickly as possible. Truthfully though, he’s relieved at the work. The busier they are the less they need to _think_. Jon can’t handle much more of thinking, thank you very much.

“Hey, there you are,” Aegon says quietly. Jon jumps, accidentally disturbing an unimpressed Ghost. The pup whines at him and Aegon before trotting away. Aegon watches him pass with a small, tired smile. “Your parents handle everything so promptly; only half a day and we’ve already repaired all the gates, windows, doors…”

Jon shrugs. “We can afford it,” he says simply. “Mother and Father are adamant that the mansion returns to its unusual splendor.”

Aegon turns to face him and Jon finally has a clear look at his brother. Clean and bathed, Aegon looks pale and soft in the flickering candlelight. “Why the rush?” his brother asks. “You should let things settle down. There’s no need to work yourselves or the hired help to the bone.”

“There’s much work to be done. Mother and Father are insistent that the soiree season continues,” Jon rubs at his eyes tiredly. “We have a reputation to uphold,” he parrots Father’s voice blandly.

“Jon, your reputation has just been shot to the seven hells!” Aegon hisses, pulling Jon to a quiet section of the hallway. “There _is_ no reputation to preserve, Jon. We need rest and we need safety—”

“—you think I don’t want that?” Jon whispers sharply. “To cancel the ball now, _after_ everybody has arrived would be terrible face! Also,” Jon adds, groaning. “Father is right. We all desperately need a distraction right about now. We need to _not_ think about what happened today.”

Even Jon can hear how ridiculous he sounds. He winces.

“Unbelievable,” Aegon shakes his head, and in the flickering light, with his hair fluttering messily, the tired hollows under his eyes seem more pronounced than ever. “Reputation is everything to that man, isn’t it?”

His brother looks angry now, eyes flashing with some unrecognizable emotion, and Jon knows it’s no longer about the wights. It is so much more than the wights. Before Jon say anything, _do_ anything, he sees a soft flickering light in the distance, shadows flickering against the walls.

Somebody’s coming.

Robb does a comical double-take when he sees them in the dark alcove, hand jerking towards his sword reflexively. “What are you doing back there? Christ, you almost stopped my heart,” Robb sighs as he twists an oil lamp in his hands. Grey Wind bounces excitedly around his feet and Ghost perks up at the sight of his brother. They yowl at each other before Ghost plops back lazily on the floor, watching the other wolf with his tongue lolled out contently.

“Uh, sorry,” Jon says apologetically. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

Robb eyes them critically for a moment before shrugging. “The locksmiths and carpenters have all left for today,” he announces. “I’m meant to tell you that dinner’s almost ready.”

Silence.

“Uncle Brynden made fish,” Robb tacks on lamely. 

“Thanks, Robb Stark,” Aegon says politely. “We’ll be right down, Jon and I just have a few things we need to discuss.”

Robb nods at them, eyes catching Jon’s own before he turns for the stairs, Grey Wind dutiful at his heels. They wait until the flickering of his lamp disappears completely before turning back to each other.

“I believe,” Jon starts evenly. “Now isn’t a good time to talk about last night.” He watches as the fading sunlight plays out against Aegon’s skin. Funny, how light changes a person’s face so wholly; where at first Aegon looked exhausted, now he looks almost threatening.

“No,” Aegon agrees. “It’s not the time, but…”

Jon leans against the wall, waiting his brother out. Aegon’s biting his lip in deep contemplation, indigo eyes cloudy and distracted.

“I can’t speak for Rhaenys,” Aegon begins slowly and carefully, as if he’s debating over every word. “But there is something really important I want you to understand,” Aegon meets his eyes. “Despite you not being my… Mother’s child, you are still my brother, Jon.”

Aegon trails off, knocking his head to the side in thought. He looks so much like Father that Jon feels his heart clench. _The legitimate son_ , Jon thinks. _A legitimate Targaryen_.

“This is hard for all of us,” Aegon says quietly, clueless to Jon’s inner turmoil. “And I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. But this changes everything, Jon. Lady Lyanna… has my mother’s titles. She took them while my mother was sick and bedridden and unable to fend for herself.” Aegon’s eyes are hard and his voice is harder. “I don’t know if I can blame Lady Lyanna for the role she played. I understand that your mother was very young… But. It feels like I’m betraying my Mother’s memory by not, I don’t know, hating or despising your parents—my Father. _Fuck_.”

His brother rubs at his eyes in frustration, silencing Jon’s reply with a quelling look. “Usually I can compartmentalize the situation into who’s guilty, who’s not… But nothing is clear cut right now and I’m… not sure about anything.”

“I understand,” Jon says quietly, tiredly leaning against the wall, watching Aegon’s eyes in the dim light. “I understand completely. I want you and Rhaenys to hate me for it. I want to hate my parents for it… but I can’t.”

Aegon’s head snaps up. ”I don’t hate you,” his brother whispers earnestly. “I don’t,” he repeats, knocking Jon’s chin up gently with his hands. “You must believe me.”

_I do, I do, of course I do_ , Jon’s heart replies.

Aegon smiles at him genuinely before another thought crosses his mind, something dark passing over his eyes. He looks away, biting his in thought. When he turns back there’s a conviction in his eyes, one so strong that Jon feels himself pause in wait.

“Whatever happens… if it hurts Rhaenys,” Aegon’s starts, voice steely. “If it hurts my family, I’ll fight against it. I don’t know what _it_ is yet, but I will fight it. So—” He shakes his head, frustration clear in his eyes. “I can’t get this out properly. What I’m trying to say is; it ends here. Right here. I’ll willingly cut ties with Father for this. I am willing to take this in front of the all the courts in the land before I allow anything to hurt my family again.”

_I’m willing to tear this family apart_.

Jon looks at Aegon. Really looks at him. There’s nothing but brutal honesty in those indigo eyes. They’re determined and resolute and there is a genuine _fear_ behind it all, and Jon feels his chest thump erratically. If he could take away the hurt that his parents have caused Aegon, Rhaenys, hell… even the rest of the families involved, he would. In an instant.

“Of course,” Jon utters. He’s surprised by how even his voice is. He’s surprised by how much he means it. “And no matter what happens, I’ll accept it.”

“I confess, I haven’t told my uncles or aunts about the… timing of your parent’s marriage yet,” Aegon rubs at his eyes, voice bitter and low. “I don’t want them involved. This is between us and Father and Lady Lyanna. I want—I want this done right. My uncles are blinded by rage— _and rightly so_ —but this isn’t their fight. Not yet.” He shrugs. “It’s about us, the three of us, all coming together to clean up this bloody mess we've been left with.”

Warmth surges through Jon. _The three of them together_. Jon knocks his shoulder against Aegon’s. “It’s a large fucking mess.”

"The largest."

They share small, tired smiles. There’s an understanding in the air between them, and for the first time today, Jon actually feels like something’s headed in the right direction.

“Look, we have to get down for dinner, less they send out another search party,” Aegon jokes weakly. “But we’ll talk about it later. You, Rhaenys, and me. We’ll sort this out on our terms. Together.”

His brother sounds so sure and so confident that it makes Jon feel sure and confident. It's a nice feeling. Jon reaches over for one of Aegon's hands, squeezing it tightly. “I’m sorry, Aegon. I’m so sorry about what happened… about your family and mine.”

Aegon squeezes him back. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault and has never _ever_ been your fault.”

Jon laughs wetly at him and Aegon punches his shoulder good-naturedly. “Stupid for you to think otherwise,” Aegon mutters, voice warm and conforting. “Lucky Rhaenys isn’t here, she’d probably box you for being so silly.”

“Where is Rhaenys, anyway?” Jon asks instead, leading Aegon downstairs. “I haven’t seen her all afternoon…” Something tugs at his memory and Jon pauses by the stairs, glancing up at his brother. “What of these dazes you mentioned before?”

Aegon frowns. “Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” he says, scratching at his head absentmindedly. He leans against the balustrade and shrugs. “Sometimes, when Rhae is really stressed, or scared, or she remembers something from… Dragonstone, she falls into this distracted mood. It’s—it’s like she doesn’t feel anything and kind of stares into blank space or she just moves in rote.” Aegon catches his eyes. “The physicians says it has something to do with how she copes with childhood trauma—if it’s too distressing her body blocks the _feeling_ , I guess. She also gets really melancholic sometimes. I hate it when it happens because it feels like she’s not actually there, you know? She loses herself in her own head…”

Jon doesn’t say anything, slowly trying to process everything.

“So this morning, when the screaming started…” Aegon continues with a far-away look. “There was this moment when the wights piled up the stairs, so Rhaenys ushered most of the women and children into a spare room. She couldn’t close the doors properly because the wights were pushing on it, and got her hands caught when it. When it did close…” Aegon blows out a breath. “When I got to her she was so… distracted… that she didn’t even realize it hurt. I saw her eyes, they were in a bad way, so I had to save my sister. I literally shoved her out the doors when we cleared that floor of wights. I couldn’t even follow her, and by the time I could, she was long gone.”

“Shit,” Jon utters. “I didn’t realize.”

“Well, it’s not something Rhaenys goes around telling people. And it hasn’t happened in a really long time,” Aegon knocks against him. “She’s always been able to handle herself before, but I guess it must have given her déjà vu today.” He shakes his head, trying for a comforting smile when he sees Jon’s stricken face. “She’s probably downstairs being smothered by Oberyn and Arthur. She sprained four fingers today—flesh wound, _don’t look at me like that_ , of course I checked—but other than that, she's okay. She always pulls through.”

“Does she ever tell you what it feels like?” Jon asks quietly.

“I’ve never tried asking… So nope,” he pops the _p_ sound. His eyes turn away.

Aegon’s not much of a liar, Jon realizes. 

His brother pulls him down the spiraling staircase, changing the subject with talks of dinner and other nonsensical topics. Jon keeps glancing at him as he talks. He can’t help it. When Aegon had said that they’ll face the situation together, the three of them against the world, and his brother had meant it. Aegon might not blame Jon for anything, but it has become incredibly clear (or has always been incredibly clear, his thinks) that should it come down to Rhaenys’ happiness and Jon’s happiness, it would never even be a choice.

It hurts, but at the same time, it doesn't.

***

Two days later finds Jon sitting in the drawing room with his parents, suffering the droning voices of a few local militiamen. He’s giving them the report: the search was inconclusive, all could anybody could determine from the wights were that they came from the Rosby estate, they did the best they could… The usual diatribe. Obviously their ‘thorough’ search of the Rosby estate didn’t include the surrounding woods, and Jon finds himself increasingly unimpressed by their incompetence. The offices continue droning on and on, trying to prop themselves up in the eyes of a Duke and Duchess. Jon’s just trying to sit straighter without falling asleep.

“This has been an interesting start to fall,” one officer says. Jon just nods dutifully when they glance in his direction. Their voices are so dull; _like luring sheep to sleep_ , he thinks as he stifles a yawn. Mother sends him a sharp reprimanding glance and Jon forces himself to sit up straighter. “We’ve recently had to apprehend some, _ahem_ , wildlings,” the man trails off dramatically, stirring his tea. He deflates at their lack of response.

“I just thought Your Grace might want to know,” the other officer says to Father, simpering like a weasel. _Poor fellow_ , Jon thinks, watching the poor performance, _he doesn’t care about you_. “Considering the path they were tracking, they were headed for the villages you see. They were in the forests, you see, we haven’t the time to search there yet, but we’ve reason to believe that they’ve been there long enough to make camp.”

Jon’s head snaps up. He stares at the man, still simpering away. “Sorry, Sir. Could you repeat that?”

“Oh yes,” the man says eagerly, turning to him. “They came out, three of these… these dangerous ruffians! They came from the forests, and their eyes were wild. Hunger for violence, you see. Had we not heard reports of their deplorable existence, who knows what grievances they could have caused.”

The officer, pleased with his recognition, finally stands to leave, patting down his pants and bowing respectively to the master and mistress of the house.

“Wait, Sir,” Jon calls, standing as well. “Is there a way I could get a message, or perhaps a meeting with these… dangerous louts?”

The man frowns at him. His partner also sends Jon a suspicious glance. “I just to see these dangerous criminals for myself,” Jon explains, tossing them his most winsome smile. “I’ve always been enamored by the knights and militia, the gentry and the army… I personally would like to see firsthand the work that you do for our province.” He clasps the man’s shoulder for good measure. “Such tireless and thankless actions that deserve all the recognition in the world,” Jon finishes in a flourish, squeezing the man’s shoulder tighter.

“Well, of course, Lord Targaryen,” he says enthusiastically, reaching up to clasp Jon’s hand with his own incredibly sweaty one. “I’ll inform the generals that we can expect your presence! The prisoners are held at the Duskendale Gaol. ”

They grin and smile and make ridiculous small talk for what seems like hours before the officers leave, Mother walking them to the doors.

“Well,” Father says. “What are you up to, my son?”

“I found something of interest in the woods two days ago, I’m heading into town,” he replies, pulling on his outercoat. “Perhaps it’s nothing but I wish to speak with the wildfolk. I’ll be back for dinner, Father.”

Father frowns disapprovingly but doesn’t push the subject. He clearly wants to talk, but Jon’s in no mood and the man is in no position to push him. He’s not happy that Jon’s avoiding anything resembling _feelings_ , but pot, meet kettle. It’s not like he’s the only one; Aegon and Rhaenys have also been playing by the same rules, artfully keeping Oberyn and their aunts distracted with housework, changing the subject whenever something particularly thorny arises.

They’ve drawn very clear battle lines. Him and his siblings will be the ones to take the first steps or not at all.

Father finally nods at him, acquiescing with a small frown. “Alright. In the mean time I’ve got to coordinate the hiring of new staff… Be careful, Jon.”

Jon nods at him before closing the door on the drawing room. “Of course, Father.”

He hunts around for Robb—Jon yearns for good company—and there’s nobody’s presence he finds more comforting than his cousin’s.

The estate is busy again; thrumming with energy unspent. Guests have been coming and going from the villages all morning. They wish to stay in the Crownlands but not in the Targaryen estate; clearly they aren’t willing to miss out on Jon’s ball, despite everything that’s happened.

Jon finds Robb in the largest parlor room, with Rickon napping in his lap while he plays a light game of Loo with his sisters. They look tired and pale but much happier now that the estate was nearing its normal function. Sansa grins warmly at him over her cards when she spots him. Robb glances up and sends him a questioning look. “Jon?”

“Accompany me to the village?” he whispers.

Robb nods, gently standing and laying Rickon on a chaise, flattening the child’s hair affectionately. Arya makes a sound of discontent. “Aww, can I come too?” she asks, dropping her cards unceremoniously. “I want to stay with you two.”

“Not today. But I promise,” Jon says, leaning down to peck her on the forehead. “That we will be right back.”

“Alright,” Sansa says lightly, though she sends him and Robb hard looks. _You’d better be right back_ , her eyes warn, “We’ll wait for you. Come now Arya, don’t fret.”

Robb ruffles both of their heads, ignoring their complaints before following him out, closing the parlor room door behind himself.

“How was it?” Robb asks, opening the front door and bowing his head for an irate Lady Arryn as she passes by. “What did the officers say?”

Jon makes sure Lysa’s out of earshot before pulling Robb towards the stables, his cousin having to hold down his top hat lest it flies off. They cut through the busy yards, passing by a large group of hiring hopefuls. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at the interest, despite everything that happened these last few days, working at the Targaryen estate still means guaranteed food and shelter.

The world’s a funny place.

“Earth to Jon,” Robb punches him gently in the arm.

“Oh, sorry. The officers told me something very interesting today,” he says in a low voice. “Apparently the militia are apprehending some wildlings at Duskendale. They were supposedly camping in the woods. _Those_ woods.”

Robb waits for a few seconds before understanding dawns. “Amazing,” his cousin sighs sarcastically. “The free folk, Jon? Are you sure?”

“It’s the best shot we have,” Jon shrugs, opening the stables doors. “Frankly, I’m not keen on talking with these criminals either, but we have a map and possible eye-witnesses to what’s been happening around here. It’s worth a try, what do you say?”

“It’s a long shot. You can’t even be sure that the ‘map’ you have even means anything,” Robb sighs but concedes, as he always does when it comes to Jon. “Alright fine. Let’s go talk to them and get it out of the way, then we can focus on the ball. I can’t believe your parents still want to hold it,” Robb chuckles, climbing his horse. “You would think their priorities would be elsewhere?”

_You don’t even know the half of it_ , Jon thinks. “Yeah, they’re insistent.”

“Insistent?” Robb teases, fixing his top hat vainly as he waits for Jon. “Stubborn more like. Prideful, maybe. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised… Look how you turned out.”

“Ha ha,” Jon says, turning back to him and climbing his stallion. “Tease a man while he’s feeling down, why don’t you?”

“Only your family…” Robb shakes his head with a small smile, though it does look dimmer than usual. “Your family fell back into normality absurdly fast, it’s a little… impressive, I guess. I’m not sure I could have done it myself.”

_Yeah, you and me both_ , he doesn't say. 

***

They make it to the village before the afternoon sun reaches its highest point in the sky. Some villages pause and stare as they pass by, others whisper amongst themselves, trying to be subtle with their pointed glances and attention. He wonders how they must look to the rest of the province—the richest and most influential family in the Crownlands couldn’t even lock a gate properly. He resolutely ignores them.

A few fair ladies, in their wide-brimmed hats and ribbons, pass by in a swirling and colorful flock. Gloved hands cover soft giggles as a young woman rakes her eyes appreciatively over them. She flutters her lashes at Robb and him, playing unsuccessfully at being coy. Jon thinks it was meant to be slow and sultry, but it simply looked as if something had poked her in the eyes. She whispers something to her friends and they strut away, occasionally glancing back with interest.

“I’ll never get over the reactions they get when they see you,” Robb chuckles, pulling his horse towards the far side of the village, towards the Gaol. “You always freeze up like a baby deer.”

“Please. Like you're much better…”

Robb grins winsomely at him, and this just feels _right_. Jon misses the simplicity of things, and finds himself laughing at Robb with little cares.

They trot the horses down a winding stone path, emptier now that they’ve left the marketplaces behind. It seems only the militia walk these streets, and some of them turning to glance curiously at the noblemen, eyes unimpressed. Robb catches his eyes as they near the Gaol. “Not the friendliest of places, is it,” his cousin whispers.

“We’re going to a bloody prison, Robb,” Jon points out, rolling his eyes at Robb’s exasperated sigh.

“You know what I mean,” Robb mutters, hopping off his horse. “Compared to the officers that came to the estate, these ones look like they’re itching for a brawl.”

Glancing around, Jon’s inclined to agree.

They hand the horses off to a young officer before heading inside the Duskendale Gaol, only the second largest prison in Westeros after the infamous Red Keep. Jon’s never been inside a prison before, and he’s not surprised at what he sees. It’s incredibly well fortified on the inside, low-lit and threatening. There’s a warning in every brick of its walls, a story in every mark on its carpet.

“Excuse me,” Jon calls, watching as a young officer makes his way over to them. “I’m from the Targaryen estate and I was told I could speak with some of your prisoners?”

The young man’s eyes widen. “The… Targaryen estate? In King’s Landing? The one that was almost overrun?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Jon says politely, barely resisting the urge to add _obviously_. “I am hoping to speak with your wildling prisoners? It would only a few minutes of your time.”

The officer blinks at him in confusion and glances around. “I’m not sure if you’re allowed…” he trails off nervously.

“It’ll only be five minutes,” Robb cuts in charmingly. “We’ll be very respectful of your goings on, you needn’t worry. Sir.”

“Uh, well I suppose someone did mention you might come by. They’re right through there, Your Graces,” the young man gestures awkwardly down the hall. “The last room, first cell to the right.” He jerks out his hand as if to shake Jon’s own before he remembers decorum and bows his head clumsily instead.

“Oh, we aren’t Dukes. It’s just Lord…” Jon trails off, but the boy’s already turning around in embarrassment. “Never mind, thank you.”

He nods quickly and spins on his heel, walking in another direction—the offices, probably, and leaves them blessedly alone. Jon and Robb watch him go before following his directions, the Gaol more ominous now that they’re headed _towards_ the cells.

“How the hells did he make it into the gentry?” Robb wonders. “He’ll get eaten alive out there. Poor fellow was sweating just looking at us.”

Jon scoffs and shrugs, pushing open the door and revealing a room lined with cells. 

Only one of them is occupied.

Three men are sitting on the floor, leaning against rusted bars, their clothes dirty and skin dirtier. They look up with sharp, hawkish eyes—eyes of a hunter—and watch suspiciously as Jon and Robb near.

“Lookie who’s gracing our presence now,” a short, bald man says to his cellmates. His eyes rake over their expensive clothing. “Oh your venerable highnesses, how can we help you today?”

“We have questions,” Robb grinds out, looking at them with clear distaste. 

Jon glances at him, clearly Robb isn’t in the mood to charm any criminals today. His good mood had drained so fast it almost gives Jon whiplash.

“Why were you outside the Targaryen manor?” Jon asks. “We found your little campsite.”

“Why should we tell you fancy-folk anything?” a tall and lean one replies. “You’ve nothing to offer in return.”

Jon valiantly restrains himself from glaring at the man. He tries, and probably fails, at looking nonchalant. “It’s unusual to have wildlings spotted this close to the villages,” he says. “We’re curious as to why.”

The man eyeballs him and Robb, unimpressed but inquisitive. He eyes the bag on Jon’s waist with clear interest. “No. You found something and you bought it here with you,” the man guesses, watching Jon with his hawkish eyes. He grins slowly in satisfaction, catching something on their faces. “A map, perhaps?”

_This one’s dangerous_ , Jon’s mind supplies. He doesn’t say anything but the man reads it on his face anyway.

“My name’s Lenn. We came from up north,” he says. “Just followin’ some the map. A little hunting. That satisfy your curiosity, milord?” He clicks his tongue on the _ing_ sound, looking smugly at their faces.

Robb frowns. “How far up north?” he demands.

“Far. You a northern fellow?” bald head asks. “You look and sound like one.” His eyes trail over Robb’s face, taking in the way he holds himself, the coolness of his eyes. “One of the rich ones, huh? Which ‘un are you? Bolton? Karstark? Stark? Tallhart? _Mormont?_ ”

Robb grinds his teeth. “Know us well, do you?”

“I mean no harm,” bald head says, mockingly spreading his arms in a supplicating gesture. “Like Lenn said. We live in the north, we know our… _neighbors_.”

Robb grinds his teeth furiously and Jon recognizes that they’ve been thoroughly baited and distracted. He rests a hand warningly against Robb’s chest.

“What are you doing here, in the Crownlands? Forgive us if we don’t believe you came all the way south just to hunt,” Jon says.

“Survival,” Lenn says in a tone which says he’s very unimpressed by how slow Jon’s being. “Gee, I wonder why my people go about actively trying to hunt carnivorous corpses instead of just locking ourselves away in our fancy, lofty towers, waitin’ for an invasion. Hmm.”

Bald head snickers at them.

“Okay, if that were the case then why didn’t you go to the militia, or knock on your  _neighbors’_ doors for help?” Robb glares at the man.

“Because when we show our faces you immediately try to arrest us?” Lenn answers dryly.

“We’ll stop trying to arrest you when you stop trying to rob us,” Robb grinds between his teeth. He rounds on Jon, a familiar expression of exasperation on his face. _This is your great plan? Really, Jon?_ Robb clearly wants to demand.

“We’re just tryin’ to survive,” the last one says. He’s been quietly watching the whole exchange with some curiosity. “There’s no point in a living if we have to live under the rule of a faceless man, laying down laws as if we’re somebody’s pawn.” He turns to Jon. “We oft mean no harm, but the people need to eat, you see. It’s not our fault that some free folk tend towards violence and not civility. We don’t speak for them.”

“As if we believe you,” Robb mutters lowly.

Jon coughs pointedly. He pulls Robb to the far side of the room. “I know you don’t like them, but what are you doing, Robb?”

“Jon, they’re criminals. I thought maybe I could let it go, but then I see them and,” Robb makes a frustrated gesture in his hands. “I know that you want their help, but they don’t understand civility and they definitely won’t help you without something in return.” Robb sighs, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. “You’re basing everything on a map which, _should I remind you_ , could be nothing. The price for dealing with them isn’t worth it.”

Jon shrugs a little. “I didn’t actually think they’d be so unreceptive.”

“You know we can hear you right?” Bald head’s voice calls. “Your parent’s ever teach you that it’s bad manners to talk about other people behind their backs?”

“You, shut up,” Robb calls. “You’re in cell, alright? You’re not one to talk about manners.”

Jon crosses his arms. “Okay, I understand your anger, but what is the harm in a few questions?”

“You don’t get it, Jon,” Robb says, grabbing his arm, eyes serious. “You live down here in your gated mansions, where everything’s sunshine and daisies. Up in the north, these people are known to be very dangerous. I’m talking _robbery and murder_ dangerous. I’m telling you, this isn’t a good idea. For all we know, they’ll never tell you the truth, or they’ll use you for their own means”

“You say ‘gated’ like Winterfell doesn’t have gates,” Jon replies weakly, shuffling on his feet.

“You know what I mean, don’t be dense. We all know each other back home, we’re a very close community. Very, very, close. Things are clearly different here,” Robb gestures back to the front rooms, where the young officer was. “That man doesn’t know you, he knows _of_ you.”

“They might know something,” Jon whispers quietly. “I look at what happened and I see everything that we could have lost. It could have been so much worse, and I’m tired of just sitting back and waiting for the next attack—that’s why we’re here, I want answers, Robb, _I want to be useful_.”

Robb presses his eyes in frustration. “I understand that, I do. But if this plan of yours is to reason with them, or to help them see the ways of the law,” Robb shakes his head. “Then it’s not going to work. You can’t make people follow or do something they don’t believe in.”

“You have so little faith in me?” Jon asks his cousin. 

Robb shakes his head vehemently, eyes flashing. “No. There is no one I trust more than you. No one, Jon. It’s _them_ I don’t trust.”

They stare at each other. Robb’s not going to back down, but neither is Jon. There is something going on here, he can _feel_ it. He just needs to make Robb see reason somehow…

“If you’ve seen the map then you know we’ve been everywhere, right? Highgarden, Horn Hill, the Vale… If you don’t believe us then you should go talk to your guests,” Lenn’s voice interrupts them. “We know that they came from all over Westeros.”

“Shut up or we’ll add stalking to your charges,” Robb mutters, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Your friend’s real funny,” the quiet one says to Jon. “Think about it this way, what good will it do our cause if we just go about attacking random rich people like yourselves? We have enough things to fight. A common enemy, perhaps?”

Jon scrutinizes the man. He doesn’t look like a liar, but he still strikes Jon as the dangerous type. More dangerous then Lenn, perhaps.

The man nods at them, sensing acquiescence. “Ask your guests about supernatural cold draughts,” the man enunciates slowly, as if talking to children. “And then come back to us, hmm? We’re going nowhere.”

“Supernatural cold draughts,” Robb repeats, catching Jon’s unimpressed eyes with his own. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Perhaps we will return,” Jon says as they start to leave. “Try to avoid the gallows if you can.”

He doesn’t wait for the snide reply, letting the doors close on them. Robb catches his eyes, shaking his head. “Only for you, Jon,” he mutters. “If it were anybody else, I’d let those three rot there until the law sorts them out.”

“I don’t like this either,” Jon sighs, pushing the doors open only to be blinded by the afternoon sun. He blinks stupidly against the light for a moment, walking back to where they left the horses. “But leave no stone unturned. Did you see their eyes?” he turns to Robb. “Those people had nothing to gain and everything to lose, they desperately believe in something. Something important, and I want to know what it is.”

“Supernatural cold draughts,” Robb scoffs. “Can’t wait to see how that boils over with the guests. They’ll just think we’re crazy.”

“At this point, aren’t we all a little crazy?” Jon shoulders him playfully. “We live in a world where the dead don’t even stay dead. _Nobody is sane_. To think that one is sane is to fully succumb to the madness.”

“That’s really poetic, Jon. So beautiful. See this here? That’s a tear.”

“Christ, I hate you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Me, writing this chapter: I could have Jon's amazing swordsmanship... or I could have him going around crushing wights with his bare hands. Dilemmas, dilemmas.
> 
> \- I also couldn’t resist that Gone Girl quote, it was so damn fitting. Each day we don’t have an Elia Gone Girl AU is another day wasted :/

**Author's Note:**

> @D&D show Dorne some recognition and let siblings be happy you utter cowards. 
> 
> Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated :)


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